


Humility

by The_Lionheart



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Avatar Traits, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Canon-typical Gertrude Behavior, Canon-typical Michael Distortion Facts, Canon-typical avatar behavior, Character Study, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hunt Avatar Jonathan Fanshawe, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jonah-typical identity weirdness, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Relationship Study, Simon has too many names, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Magnus Archives Spoilers, Tragic Romance, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 52,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24768004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: have you no idea that you're in deep?i've dreamt about you nearly every night this week,how many secrets can you keep?
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Elias Bouchard/Original Male Character(s), Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Jonah Magnus/Original Male Character(s), Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 15
Kudos: 30





	1. 1812

**1812**

It is a lovely May evening, and Barnabas - a darling in his own right, of course - has much to say on the matter of beauty and delight. Jonah finds it is simple enough to listen to him speak on whatever matters it is that he finds worthy, despite the fact that more often than not, his dearly beloved is not the most-connected or best-informed member of their circle of companions and friends. Jonah doesn’t let himself drift - there’s too much at stake, always and forever, to not pay attention to anyone who’s speaking - but he allows his gaze to wander. 

Mordechai Lukas is speaking to a pair of fellows, near the ornamental fountain. One is old Luca Napolitano, with his long white beard and intensely blue eyes, and Luca’s arm is looped through the arm of a man Mordechai’s own prodigious height and breadth. Jonah allows himself to look, hungrily seeking out any clue of who this newcomer might be - he looks a bit silly and terribly out of fashion, really. He has a head of loosely tumbling hair the color of sunlit wheat clubbed at the back of his skull with a short ribbon, and is wearing a sedate green waistcoat and jacket over a pair of cream-colored breeches. As tall and broad-shouldered as he is, his clothes don’t quite seem fitted to him, as if they were tailored for an even larger man. There are ruffles at his cuffs and collar, and his inexpertly-tied cravat is a vivid sky-blue that Jonah knows he’s seen ‘round Luca’s neck before. His cheek and jaw are smooth, golden in the light.

The mystery man turns his laughably boyish face and gives Jonah and Barnabas an inscrutable look, just bordering past the edges of polite, before turning back to his conversation with Mordechai and Luca. Jonah feels Barnabas come to attention at his side, without a single lull in his speech.

“Why, he looks like something out of a painting, doesn’t he?” Barnabas asks, audibly delighted. There are so few newcomers who elect to stay in their circle of friends; he always finds himself disappointed when inquiring about fellows who attended some function or another. “Dear Luca did say he was bringing an acquaintance of his to visit us soon. Do you suppose that might be him?”

Considering he’s got the Italian practically hanging off his arm, Jonah is inclined to think that yes, he probably is the very one. He says so to Barnabas, who chuckles a bit at him and gives his arm a pat. It is the work of a moment to cross the garden and join the three men in their conversation.

“Well, hello!” Barnabas says, giving the gathered gentlemen a series of rousing handshakes that leaves Mordechai looking vaguely wounded, the stranger deeply perplexed, and old Luca as amused as anything. “Jonah, come, join me in greeting our friends.”

“Good evening, Luca. Mordechai,” Jonah says smoothly, just as he’s practiced, just as he always does, and he fixes his gaze on Luca’s companion. “I don’t believe we’ve met just yet, have we?”

Luca gives him a smile that slides quickly into slyness. “You haven’t. This is a very dear and personal friend of mine, Aleksei Oedekoven of Bavaria. You still haven’t been to Bavaria, have you, Jonah?”

“I haven’t,” Jonah says primly. “This one hasn’t seen fit to take me.”

“Oh! So now it’s Barnie’s fault, is it?” Barnabas teases, and moves to shake the hand of an increasingly bewildered Aleksei again. “I don’t suppose you speak English, do you?”

“I - a small - just some,” Aleksei stammers, carefully tugging his hand away. Jonah’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead - he sounds even younger than he looks. He looks down at Luca, whose smile does nothing to offer any explanation. Jonah wonders at the meaning of Aleksei’s expression, before it shutters and he offers a hand to Jonah as well. “H-hello.”

“Hello, yes,” Jonah says, and _my_ that is a firm grip. His hand is… callussed, in a way that Jonah hasn’t felt on a man since he was swept up into Barnabas’s circle of rich socialites. “Jonah Magnus. It’s a delight to meet you, I’m sure.”

“Are - are you sure?” Aleksei asks, and Mordechai - an oddly silent man for one so large, snorts out a small laugh. Barnabas is less overt but still trembling with barely suppressed amusement at Jonah’s side, and Luca looks positively thrilled. Aleksei mutters a question in German to Luca, who merely shrugs at him. Flushing, Aleksei’s fingers tighten reflexively around Jonah’s hand. 

“I - apologies,” he says. “Could speak better if - in French? If you like.”

“I’d like my hand back, actually,” Jonah says, because that’s just what he needed, one more person who expects a man of his station to know French. 

Aleksei blinks at him, and his eyes are huge and a faded blue-grey that makes Jonah think of the sun-bleached skies Luca prefers to paint. Luca stands on his toes to tell Aleksei something in German, and he releases Jonah’s hand with a tiny gasp.

“I - I meant no harm,” he mumbles, and Jonah laughs at him. Barely out of boyhood, for all that he looms over Jonah and Luca and Barnabas.

“You couldn’t harm me if you tried, Aleksei,” Jonah says, as if he isn’t just a few years out of childhood himself. Aleksei looks mortified, and Jonah feels a brief flare of savage triumph at the spots of red high on his cheeks, and the way his lower lip catches between his teeth. Jonah turns and gives Mordechai a small smile over Barnabas’s shoulder. “We were hoping to give Mr. Lukas a few of our thoughts. You won’t miss him too terribly, will you?”

“Of course not, we were just about to accost Robert by the wine,” Luca says brightly, herding his young charge - a scandalously young muse? Jonah can’t imagine having the boy around for meaningful conversation - off in search of their host. 

“Well, he seemed very - nice,” Barnabas says, and Mordechai clears his throat. 

“Luca certainly thinks very… highly of him,” he says, before fixing his gaze on Jonah’s face. Something burns and twists in Jonah’s gut - _he knows he knows he knows_ , the faintest whisper of old insecurity suggests - and Jonah smiles faintly. 

“Well, Barnabas was just telling me about one of his most favored retreats - Barnabas, why don’t you tell Mordechai a bit about the old estate?” 

Mordechai’s pale eyes burn into his face as Barnabas starts chattering in a pleasant enough manner. Jonah has to look away, and his gaze falls again on Luca and his huge German boy, on the almost fatherly way Luca pats his back, between his broad shoulders. Aleksei catches him staring, while turning to greet Robert at Luca’s direction, but if he has any feeling about being so watched he does not reveal it on his face.

**1895**

“How was the play?” 

The big bear of a man - golden-haired, golden-skinned, surrounded by the white paint and gilt details of the St. James theater, looking deeply out of place in mourning black with so many jolly-looking theatergoers all around him - draws himself up short. The years have been kind to Aleksei; that, or he’s forgotten that he’s meant to allow himself to age. He can only get away with claiming to be a youthful forty-five for so long before he needs to start arranging paperwork to succeed himself as his heir, and no one would believe that a son would look so like the father in all regards. Luca - or Jakob, as he’s calling himself now - would have reminded Aleksei to cause his face to wrinkle and change, but Jonah already knows - even without the Eye at his beck and call - that Aleksei hasn’t spoken to anyone among their old circle of friends in quite some time.

“The play?” Aleksei asks, one gloved hand pawing restlessly at the short beard lining his jaw. That, at least, is shot through with silver. Jonah wonders how he managed to grow a beard at all, and Knows that Jakob has taught him how to make the fine hairs of his face thicker and more visible. He looks like someone’s confused uncle. He no longer has any trace of German in his accent. “Oh, the - yes. The new Wilde. It was lovely. Thank you for asking, young sir.” 

“Aleksei,” Jonah sighs. “Come walk with me.” He gestures to one side, and they start making their way down King Street. The decades have not, it seems, eroded Aleksei’s biddable, trusting nature. Jonah presses his Gaze into Aleksei’s mind, just to be sure that this is not some sort of play on Aleksei’s behalf to feign ignorance in public, or some strain of confidence hitherto unseen in a man who has the strength, size, and ability to never be in danger from any mortal man. 

But no. Despite his gloominess, Aleksei is in a friendly enough mood when greeted by a stranger, and there is merely an affable curiosity in him in place of where a sensible person might feel suspicion. He allows himself to be moved from place to place, and is in no particular hurry, and has no particular fear of harm. He doesn’t even wear the mantle of the Vast around himself and his thoughts as an automatic protection, the way others of their ilk do. Jonah itches to slap him, to drag him out of this stupid complacency. 

Aleksei follows, as if he’s learned nothing at all from his life and certainly nothing from his previous interactions with Jonah in their youth. He hasn’t even questioned how Jonah knows his name. 

Jonah leads him to a particularly secluded area of Green Park - it’s a bit quiet, though not quiet enough to be terribly private, and he raises his eyes to meet Aleksei’s. 

“It’s been a long time,” he says, a bit pointedly. “Hasn’t it?”

“Has it?” Aleksei echoes, giving him a polite smile. “My apologies, young man, I have been a bit distracted of late. Please do forgive an old bachelor’s faulty memory, and please remind me of our previous acquaintance?”

“My name is Tobias Egerton,” Jonah says, leaning in close for dramatic effect. Poor stupid Tobias had been a tall and well-muscled man, though not nearly as tall and broad as Aleksei himself. “I’m the Chief Curator and Head of the Magnus Institute, which just recently relocated to London. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Recognition flits across Aleksei’s face, and Jonah sees the first springlike tendrils of caution blossom in him at the name _Magnus_.

“Some sort of school for storytellers and spirit-talkers, isn’t it?” Aleksei asks lightly. “Can’t say I know much about it, sir. I’ve never been a superstitious man.” 

“Aleksei, it’s me,” Jonah says sharply. 

“Of course, Mr. Egerton,” Aleksei says, giving him a small nod. “If that’s all-”

“I will be deeply cross with you if you do not stop this inanity and _speak to me,_ ” Jonah says, and Aleksei stops, his face wary and sad but without any trace of his previous innocence. “You came to London. Why?”

“Shall I call you Tobias?” Aleksei asks quietly. He fidgets nervously at the wrist of his glove; no true fear, there, just an urge to be as far from this conversation as possible. “Or will calling you by your true name offend your sense of drama?”

“Tobias is acceptable in public,” Jonah says, and Aleksei raises his eyebrows. “You’re supposed to be going by Gabriel these days, did you forget?”

“I can’t find it in me to care much, J- Tobias,” Aleksei admits, then sighs. “It’s very confusing. Couldn’t we go somewhere a little more private?”

“Deep into some wretched forest or high among some damp clouds or somesuch? No,” Jonah says, and Aleksei’s mouth twists into the ghost of a smile.

“I meant either your or my lodgings, Tobias. I wouldn’t take you to my lovely old forest, you’d ruin it with your complaints about the dirt and the insects,” he remarks, the smile fading fast. “What did you want? Surely you didn’t accost me for the sole purpose of - what, discussing the play we just saw?”

“I didn’t watch the play, Herr Oedekoven, I came to ask you what you were doing here,” Jonah reminds him, gesturing at his clothes. “You’re late if this is for the funeral. He died three months past.” 

“I am in mourning for my _friend_ , Tobias, I may wear the black so long as I like,” Aleksei says with a bit of a huff. Jonah thinks it’s a bit of a stretch for Aleksei to call Mordechai his friend - frankly, he hates the idea, because Mordechai was his first and foremost, and because Aleksei hadn’t been there the way Jonah had, hadn’t kept Mordechai when no one else could or would. Aleksei had been told in no uncertain terms that Mordechai wanted to be left alone, and he’d nodded, and told Mordechai that he could always find him in the fog, and then he’d gone. Mordechai had told him to leave him, and he’d obeyed when Jonah wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

It rankles him to think that Aleksei would have thought that a final service to a singularly solitary friend. It infuriates him to think that Mordechai - who hated, to the very end, how Jonah had caught him in his gaze and stared and promised to never forget his face - would have considered it a deeply moving favor from a friend.

“You didn’t wear the black five years ago,” Jonah points out, and Aleksei gives him another sad little smile.

“You didn’t die five years ago, either, I fail to see your point,” he says, far too gently. Jonah steps close, and Aleksei lets him. He’d always let Jonah do anything he wanted, right up until Aleksei had stepped away without a backwards glance. He wonders where Aleksei’s been all this time, and Knows that it was nowhere special, and that he was not laying awake and thinking of Jonah all these years, and that he could go months and years without thinking of Jonah’s name or face even once. 

“Why are you here? Why are you in London?” he asks, and Aleksei watches him, watches his face.

“I can’t just claim that I missed it here, can I?” he asks, and sighs. “Mm. My - oh, not-Luca, you know. Jakob asked me to come and take care of a few things. I think he wanted me to commit to joining his little family.”

“But you didn’t,” Jonah presses, and Aleksei shakes his head. “Why are you _still_ here?”

“Come take it if you want to know so badly,” Aleksei snaps, and the awful truth of it is that Jonah _could_ , if he wanted. There are no traps in his head, waiting for Jonah to slip into a pocket of the Vast. There is no danger for Jonah, other than the deep, curdling feeling that if he Knows and it’s not the answer he wanted, he will be forced to do something he doesn’t at all want to do. 

“Barnabas died alone and afraid,” Jonah says instead, and Aleksei gives him a hard look. “Do you want to know whose name it was that lingered on his lips and on his dying breath?”

He presses the information, crumb by crumb, into Aleksei’s mind. It hadn’t been Aleksei’s name, it hadn’t been his face and hands that had given Barnabas the briefest flashes of comfort in that place. Aleksei comes close, his eyes storm-bright for a moment. 

“Jonah,” he breathes out in a warning tone. 

“It’s Tobias,” Jonah reminds him. “He didn’t even think of you at all. He was-”

Aleksei’s gloved hand goes to his mouth, and he bites down through the pale kid leather, the sudden salt of blood coating his lips and tongue. Tobias Egerton had been very stupid, but tall and strong, and he had had _very_ good teeth. Aleksei is taller and stronger, and he’s been bitten bloody before. 

“I am in London,” Aleksei growls down at him, “because I want to be. No one is forcing you to see me, and if you’re going to be such a child about it I will be happy to remind you _why it is_ that I did not call upon you for a visit.”

Jonah releases him, hot blood running down his chin. He wants to apologize, to hold Aleksei in arms that are strong and broad, now. He wants to bite him again. He wants to have never come looking for him again. 

Aleksei’s eyes are soft, his anger all burned away. He tugs the glove off with a little hiss, and gives Jonah a deeply pathetic look.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Tobias,” he says. Jonah Knows that he means it with every sign of pure sincerity.

“Shut up,” Jonah snaps, and Aleksei hums a little, examining his hand. He raises his eyes to meet Jonah’s, flicking his tongue across the meat of his palm and over the back of his hand until the blood has gone and there is simply a pair of raw crescents cut into his skin. Jonah feels himself tremble at the sight. He doesn’t know what it is he wants. 

“My hotel room has a balcony,” Aleksei says. “And it’s nice and high. We won’t be spotted.”

“No,” Jonah says, and Aleksei sighs.

“You’re not wandering about the streets of London looking like some sort of carrion-eating ghoul, _Tobias_ ,” he says flatly. “I’ll take you to my place and you can clean up. You might even fit one of my shirts now.”

“You shouldn’t have come,” Jonah says. “No one wanted you to come.”

“Jakob did,” Aleksei explains patiently. “Told you earlier, didn’t I?”

“Mordechai wouldn’t have wanted to see you,” Jonah adds, and Aleksei sighs and holds out his arm. He used to be able to tuck Jonah close and carry him; Jonah had hated and adored it in turns. Jonah doesn’t allow himself to wonder if Aleksei can still bear his weight before stepping close and allowing Aleksei’s arm to wrap around him. In a moment he knows, through the rushing of air past his ears, that he can still carry him, that the added weight is nothing to the enormousness of the Vast. 

They are standing again, and Aleksei is pressing his mouth into the side of his head, releasing him to stagger back through the open doorway of his hotel balcony. His stomach lurches, and he feels a trembling horror run through him at the thought of falling from the height he and Aleksei had reached. His body would have obliterated the stone and brickwork of the balcony, and left nothing but bloodied rubble on the street.

“I wouldn’t have dropped you,” Aleksei says, and Jonah shoots him a furious glare before he stalks through the well-appointed room in search of a basin to wash in. “I’m no killer, you know that.”

“And what happens to those who wander too deeply through your forests, then?” Jonah asks, using what he Knows to be Aleksei’s most expensive handkerchief to dab the blood from his chin and mouth. 

“They don’t _die,_ Jonah, Christ above. They don’t die. They merely walk home with a greater appreciation of the glory of wide-open spaces and the greatness of the world that surrounds us,” Aleksei says earnestly, sitting down on his bed and peeling off his other glove. “Some do decide to stay in the forest. There’s surely no harm in that, either. I love the forest, you know. And the forest loves us back.”

“You could at least pretend that it disquiets you,” Jonah remarks with a gesture towards Aleksei’s injured hand, and Aleksei flexes it - now, fully healed - into a fist once or twice.

“Why?” he asks, and Jonah sighs noisily at him. “I think I’ll keep the scar. Gives me an air of menace, no?”

“No one could be menaced by you, Leksi. Not if they heard you speak,” Jonah says, and Aleksei raises his eyebrows at him. “Do you suppose you’ve learned how to frighten a man in the last few years?”

“Would you like to come here and find out?” Aleksei asks softly, full of promise. 

And what can Jonah say to that? He steps close, allowing Aleksei to bundle him in his arms, still smelling of high winds and a hint of blood and a woody cologne that Jonah knows without Knowing was a gift from Jakob. In his old body, Aleksei’s mouth would have been at the right height to dip slightly and take a nipple between his teeth. Seated on the edge of the bed as he is, his face presses into Jonah’s stomach, just over the tender joint of his hip. 

Jonah lets out a ragged sigh, sinking his new, broad-tipped fingers through Aleksei’s hair.

“You ought to get your hair trimmed,” he murmurs. 

“Ought to,” Aleksei agrees, dragging his hands down the rounded curve of Jonah’s buttocks and gripping the backs of his thighs. “The… there’s a barber I’m fond of. I could be persuaded to pay him a visit. You might like him.” 

“You think I might like everyone,” Jonah points out. “Is he - is he some kind of murderous barber, or-?”

“I think they take away your business license if you kill your clients,” Aleksei says sweetly, looking up at him. “Jonah, may I speak?”

“You certainly do like to speak, yes. What is it?” Jonah asks, his patience thinning. Aleksei’s eyes are soft on his, his mouth curled into the gentlest of smiles.

_“Have you ever been lost in the forest?”_

Jonah blinks, stepping back. The smell of Aleksei’s cologne is all he can smell, now, pine and oak and cedar and something faint beneath it. His bootheel steps not on the polished wood of the bedroom floor but on something that crunches lightly. Aleksei is still smiling at him, sitting on the edge of the bed, but there is a strange light dappling his sunny grin. 

He turns, and almost walks into the trunk of a tree, greater around and taller than any tree he can remember seeing. He looks up, and he can’t see the topmost branches, stretching away into the pale mist. They are surrounded by giants, he thinks to himself, and gingerly puts a hand to the trunk. 

“This can’t be real,” Jonah mutters, and Aleksei chuckles softly into his ear, a sudden warm breath against the side of his neck and jaw. 

“Of course it is. Or did you think I just thought about really big trees and then wished very hard for them?” he asks. His teeth are close enough to drag, just faintly, against the side of Jonah’s neck. 

“Aleksei-” Jonah begins, turning, and Aleksei is gone. He spots him stepping around the base of the enormous tree and sighs, put-upon. If Aleksei’s taken him to - he casts about for the Knowledge - some forest in California, he’ll need to bring Jonah back to London. And if this is all in Jonah’s head, he’d rather be roused from this dream before some weakly-dispositioned maid came and discovered him in the room. 

“Who’s being childish now, Leksi?” Jonah sighs again, rounding the corner and pausing, eyes narrowed. There is no one there, of course, but the tree is greater around than he would have guessed. He thinks he hears the crunch of a footstep, somewhere, and while he can certainly Feel Aleksei nearby he can’t quite… pinpoint him.

“Come back,” he commands, and Aleksei lets out a short, barking laugh.

“Would have loved you to ask me that, once,” he says, his voice mild and deceptively hard to place. “Come get me, Jonah.” 

Jonah turns the power of the Eye through his own and casts his gaze about. He Sees himself, next to a tree that stands taller than the dome at St. Paul’s Cathedral, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of trees of similar height. He Looks through Aleksei’s eyes - a gift that Aleksei allows him, instead of letting his vision slide into the depths - and Sees millions of acres of dark green rolling across the ground below him, and realizes with a thrill that the green is not of grassland but of forest, and of no ordinary forest but of this sweeping valley of giants. No human could hope to be seen from such a height, among such a forest. Aleksei can’t see Jonah from where he is; he is lost, and there is no way that he might be found. 

He wrenches his Gaze away and searches instead for a trail, some way he might walk out of here and to the nearest city. His eyes focus on a line of trundling ants, marching resolutely up the trunk of the tree, very near to where his trembling hand is pressed. He leans against the reddish bark, his head swimming as he tries to cast his vision somewhere else, anywhere else. The Knowledge strikes him that there are trees growing in this forest that were planted before the birth of Christ; it strikes him that there are trees here that have grown, silently and without notice or complaint of all of the world’s triumphs and ills in all that time. 

These trees will continue to grow here. They will be here hundreds more years, and nothing Jonah does, nothing he has ever done, all the lives sacrificed and frittered away in order to amass power and funding and his glorious Institute and the Crown, deep beneath the streets of London - none of these things will ever touch these trees, this place. Even the most insignificant creature here will never once be affected by Jonah Magnus, in any way.

A sob bubbles in Jonah’s chest. He’s hurt so many - even the men and women he’s loved, he’s hurt and cast aside and allowed to die - Barnabas’s skull silent and polished in his desk drawer, Mordechai’s ashes in the mausoleum at Moorland House - and for what, and for what? He’ll keep moving, keep changing, and outside of losing everyone he cares about nothing will have truly changed, it will all have been for nothing, and he will stay netted in obscurity until he loses his race with Death. 

“Oh, Jonah,” Aleksei says, tender and contrite, and Jonah bares his teeth and presses his thumb over a single ant. It squirms against his borrowed flesh, and he kills it in a scraping smear against the bark, leaving blood and skin behind. 

“Let me out,” he all but growls, and Aleksei is behind him again, arms around his waist, mouth buried in the crook of his shoulder. He drives his elbow back into Aleksei’s stomach, and they both are released into the confines of Aleksei’s hotel room, and it is still a lovely evening in London outside. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Aleksei says, sitting back down on the edge of the bed, and Jonah Knows - more forcefully than he needs to, by the look of Aleksei’s sudden flinch - that Aleksei means killing the ant. Jonah finds it infuriating that someone with the enormous expanse of the universe between his teeth would be capable of caring about the fate of a single ant. 

“Why are you still wearing that stupid suit?” Jonah asks. With Aleksei seated so, he can crowd him, stand between his trembling thighs and bury his hands in his golden hair and force his head back to face him. Aleksei takes one of his hands from his hair and presses his hurt thumb into his mouth, the warm wetness of his tongue stinging the scraped skin there as he licks away blood and splinters and the crushed body of a dead ant. Jonah’s breath catches in his throat as Aleksei sucks lightly at his thumb, then releases it with a soft and filthy noise.

“Why are you still wearing that stupid man?” Aleksei parrots back, eyes light with a faint amusement. Jonah hisses, wrapping his fist in golden hair and shaking Aleksei’s head a bit, watching his mouth open slightly as his face flushes pink. 

“You’ve learned,” Jonah says slowly, “to be… somewhat menacing.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aleksei says drily, his hands on Jonah’s hips. “Was it the scar? It’s the scar, isn’t it?”

“Take off your jacket and shut up,” Jonah says, and Aleksei, as ever, obeys. 

**1812**

It is a brutally hot July day, and Aleksei Oedekoven is shivering and pale underneath the shade of an apple tree heavy with new fruit. Jonah’s seen him a few more times since their first introduction, but never alone - almost always in the company of Luca, though occasionally in the midst of a quiet, plodding conversation with Mordechai in French. Most often, Aleksei merely nods and smiles vaguely, absorbing little of their group’s conversations and interjecting only rarely in heavily accented, sometimes broken English. 

Jonah approaches slowly, cautiously - he has long since progressed past the point of requiring a chaperone, but something in Aleksei’s body puts him in mind of a wounded, cornered animal.

“Good afternoon, Aleksei,” Jonah says, and Aleksei flinches at the sound of his voice. “Is - is everything quite alright?”

“Yes. I am well,” Aleksei lies clumsily, sweat beading on his forehead and soaking through his collar. “Please enjoy your walk, Herr Magnus.”

His clothing is rumpled and his cravat is only very loosely tied, almost as if it had been an afterthought. Even disregarding the absolutely unfashionable state of his clothing - French-made for sure, and probably not in any current style since before Jonah was born - Aleksei’s never allowed himself to appear so completely undone in Jonah’s presence. He doesn’t even seem to notice that Jonah hasn’t continued on his walk. His hair is half-free of the loose ribbon at his nape; on impulse, Jonah comes close, plucking the ribbon free. Aleksei barely notices that, too.

“Why don’t I fix that for you?” he asks gently, and Aleksei startles, looking up at him. “Your hair, I mean. It’s fallen out of its tie.”

“Oh - oh, it has,” Aleksei says distantly, and Jonah sighs.

“Keep your head straight and be still while I do it,” he says, and Aleksei blinks once at him before obeying. 

Jonah sinks his fingers into Aleksei’s damp hair, combing them through it a few times, and ignores the soft, longing sigh that makes its way past Aleksei’s clenched jaw. It’s not been trimmed for some time; he puts it into a short, loose braid only an inch or two long before tying off the ends. Strands of Aleksei’s wheat-colored hair fall loose around his brow, and without thinking too hard upon it Jonah tucks them behind his ears. 

He looks down at Aleksei, and Aleksei is looking up at him with an expression of naked hurt and wanting.

“You seem upset,” Jonah tells him, and he lowers his gaze. “What happened, Aleksei?”

“I - you don’t-” he starts, before putting his face in his hands. He takes several long breaths, ending in either a sob or a half-hysterical chuckle. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Herr Magnus.”

“You know me well enough to call me Jonah,” Jonah says. “You call Mordechai and Luca and Barnabas by their Christian names-”

“They don’t hate me,” Aleksei says quietly, eyes downcast. Jonah blinks down at him. He doesn’t think he’s ever done anything to indicate hatred - nor even dislike, even though he certainly isn’t fond of Aleksei the way he is of most of their circle. It just takes time for Jonah to warm up to people, he supposes. He’s… used to having his attempts at warmth rebuffed. 

But of course there’s no way for Aleksei to have known that. He’s just always seemed to be Luca’s shadow, more than anything else, and there’s never been any particular reason to seek him out away from the old Italian.

“I don’t hate you, either,” Jonah says, after a moment. “So you’ll be calling me Jonah, then.” Aleksei gives him a weak smile, and Jonah clears his throat. “I can’t help but notice that your English has enormously improved over the last twelve hours since last we spoke.”

At that Aleksei goes crimson, across his neck and ears and over the entire span of his face. 

“I - well,” he offers, wringing his big hands in his lap. “I’m… I truly didn’t speak much of it before I came to Scotland, you know. I just… I picked it up quickly enough, but I was… afraid? That I might say something wrong, and - and I thought it would be better if I shouldn’t speak much at all, really. Safer.”

“Ah,” Jonah says, and - well, he knows, doesn’t he? The fear of being known, of being judged and found wanting. The fear of saying the wrong thing and having months and years of effort tossed aside, like garbage. Aleksei is busily inspecting his hands. “Well. If you like, we could… we could have you to our place. Barnabas and mine, under the pretense of giving you English lessons. Ease you into speaking more comfortably.”

He pauses, then adds, very grudgingly, “It would not be a favor, you understand. I am… in need of a French tutor.”

“I see,” Aleksei says, then presses his mouth into a taut line. “My apologies, then. I… was under the impression that you speak French already.”

“I do not,” Jonah says, a touch archly.

“I realize this. It… I was wondering if you simply hated my jokes,” Aleksei admits, and puts his face in his hands. “You never - laughed or smiled at any of them - even Mordechai’s thought they were funny a time or two, and I - I have not been kind to you in my assumptions. Please accept my apologies, H- Jonah.”

“Very well, I accept,” Jonah says, matter-of-factly and without any sort of overt tone. Aleksei gives him a worried smile, and Jonah sees himself just a short number of years ago, still feeling out his place in their social circle, always one step back and behind and afraid, because when - if men with badges and official writs ever come to their gatherings it’s Jonah who will be dragged away and shoved into an ill-fitting frock and handed back to his father like a runaway child. 

Jonah looks up at the branches of the tree. There are too many apples for the fruit to grow very large; Robert ought to have his gardener prune it. 

“Aleksei, how old are you?” he asks abruptly, and when he glances sharply after Aleksei’s silence the German is gazing thoughtfully up at him. 

“How old does Luca say I am?” he asks tentatively, and Jonah narrows his eyes at him.

“That is no answer. And he hasn’t said,” he adds.

“Mm. I shouldn’t like to make a liar of him,” Aleksei says uncertainly. At Jonah’s expectant look, he clears his throat. “I am… I will be seventeen? I was born in November, so.”

“You are _very_ young,” Jonah says, even though he supposes he was only just seventeen himself when he was first given to Barnabas in marriage. Aleksei blushes and looks at his hands again. “You’re tall enough that I assumed you were… at least a bit older.”

“I suppose,” Aleksei says glumly, and Jonah clears his throat.

“Well. There is no use in alerting everyone we know that you’re somewhat younger than you look,” Jonah says, and does not say that truly Aleksei doesn’t look terribly older than sixteen at the best of times anyway. Aleksei shoots him another of those yearning looks, fraught with some sort of nameless gratitude. It makes Jonah uncomfortable, to be looked at with such an expression. “It will be our secret, then.”

“Thank you,” Aleksei whispers, casting his gaze downwards. His gloom is unbearable.

“Who else thinks you barely speak any English?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei glances up at him.

“Doctor Fanshawe,” he says, “and Robert. And I suppose Barnabas and - well - I think Mordechai actually? We always have conversations in French and I suppose it’s never come up.”

“Not Maxwell?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei stiffens and goes pale.

“No. He - he knows, I am sure.” Aleksei is very quiet. Jonah clears his throat.

“Well, I saw him leaving some time ago,” he offers, and Aleksei perks back up at the news. Jonah files this away for later use. “Why don’t we go and - and pretend to the rest of our friends that you speak even less English than they think you do? Speak only in French.”

A faint grin tugs at Aleksei’s lips. “Could do you one better. None of them speaks any German, I could just say I have too much a headache to converse in French.”

“That’s a deeply amusing idea,” Jonah says, offering Aleksei a hand up. “Though this little farce would fall to pieces if Albrecht was here.”

“Does he speak German?”

“Quite so! He is a nobleman of some small acclaim in Bavaria. Perhaps you’ve run in the same circles before,” Jonah says, and knows by the redness of Aleksei’s face that he hasn’t.

“Oh, I’m sure we have. W-well, perhaps by the time he and I meet Luca will have convinced me to pick up Italian, and we can continue this little play then, too.” Jonah gestures at him, and he cautiously leans down toward him. “What?”

“Hold still and let me fix you,” he mutters, rearranging Aleksei’s shirt and jacket and re-tying his cravat. His face is very warm and close, and Jonah knows the look of hopeless adoration when he sees it from four inches away. He gives Aleksei’s shoulder a firm pat, and they separate. “Come. Let’s convince a group of rich academics who know you that you only speak German.”

Aleksei snickers, like a child. Jonah supposes he doesn’t mind.

**1923**

A push here, a nudge there. Connections are made - he’s attending yet another fundraiser, this time for some national museum of art or architecture or antiquity or some sort of thing - and Jonah wonders briefly - and not for the first time - if he would have made a decent servant of the Web, and finds that it is the notion of being anything’s servant that rankles him. No. This is merely… setting the stage for a future date, for the generations of fundraisers and well-meaning philanthropes who will pour their money into his Institute until such a time that it accomplishes his ultimate goal. He has fascinated patrons and interested parties enough to cover any costs of these little gatherings.

Besides - it _is_ nice to run into the old crowd every so often, and let them know that there’s simply no escaping his influence. It’s certainly better to see one another over drinks and artfully crafted hors d'oeuvres than, say, over a bloodied bayonet or grinning madman decked in occult jewelry. 

Even if most of that old crowd is dead, and those that still live are, well. Tiresome. It’s nice to see who’s still kicking around, especially since these functions tend to end up almost entirely populated by young strangers who have little to no understanding of the sort of world that has been underneath their feet since the dawn of humanity. 

Jonah allows himself to be distracted. It’s a faint sensation - he can whip it away at any moment - but for now he enjoys the idea of being even very mildly surprised. It’s nice to experience. He’s been surprising people all night; it’s his first social event as Geoffrey Hancock, and none of his old friends have recognized him until he told them who he was. Mordechai’s son Noah is even here, though really Ephraim - his oldest - is of an age to properly manage all of the family affairs now. He’s a striking man, somewhere in his forties, and has a son of his own running around someplace. 

Jonah thinks it’s probably a sign of the increase in the Lukas family’s search for a perfect scion that he’s never met young Nathaniel in his ten years of life yet, but perhaps he’s just a shy boy.

The thought makes Jonah snicker into his flute of champagne. Maxwell gives him a smile over his own glass - he’d chosen a red, of all things - and there’s an almost Knowing glint in his blinded eyes as his guide silently taps his shoulder with one pristinely gloved hand.

“Well, well, well,” Maxwell says, his voice slow and rich. “Simon Fairchild’s finally come, and he’s brought one of his _sons._ Have you met Simon since he… became Simon?”

“Mm,” Jonah says, swirling the last mouthful of champagne around his glass. “On Tobias’s deathbed, in fact. The man changes names nearly as often as I do.”

“And it’s one of my _favorite_ sons,” Maxwell says, giving Jonah’s arm a pat and tucking a hand onto his guide’s shoulder. “I’m going to give them a hello. Be sure to say hello to them later, Geoffrey.”

“Of course,” Jonah murmurs, and downs the last of his champagne. Just a couple of glasses is affecting him far more than the drink ever did when he was Tobias. Jonah misses being Tobias, really. Geoffrey Hancock was studious and earnest and not, in truth, going to be a good investment. This body is not so young as Jonah would have liked - thirty-eight, in fact, but there’s been a shortage of loosely connected young men since the War. He’ll just have to do for now.

Jonah allows himself to glance across the lavishly appointed foyer - indeed, where most of the event is taking place tonight - and almost chokes. Simon has given himself youth again, looks to be somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, and at his side - looking barely twenty himself, looking younger than he has in a century - is Aleksei. They cut a very handsome pair in black-tie, though they really don’t look anything alike. Simon is short and wiry and full of a manic brilliance - Jonah can believe that _this_ is a man who fell in love with a painting of the sky at fourteen and from there fell into the open embrace of the Vast. This young man _looks_ like the person who danced and danced and danced his way through the centuries. Simon barely comes up to Aleksei’s armpit, and yet he is deeply commanding and pointed in a way huge, soft-featured and open-faced Aleksei isn’t. 

Simon is an icy breeze from on high, touching every cloud and glinting off rays of weak sunlight. Jonah can’t imagine him willingly sleeping, though he knows he’s seen it. Simon _sparks_.

And Aleksei looks like he woke up from one of their opium dens - good lord, and that’s certainly something Jonah hasn’t thought of in a span of days! - and was gently bullied into his tuxedo on the way in. His golden skin is soft and his cheeks are prettily pink, his jaw smooth and clean - shaven? Or just not allowed to grow a beard for now? His hair is very short, for him, but still long and loose enough to tousle a little, falling into his eyes when he turns to speak into Simon’s ear. He straightens with a boyish smile, rolling his eyes at whatever Simon’s told him, a purely ornamental silver-tipped cane tucked into one elbow. 

He cradles a pair of wineglasses - because apparently Simon also wanted that ghastly red that Maxwell was drinking, and Aleksei is too polite to tell him that he dislikes most reds - and lets Simon do most of the talking, just as he always did in their old days together. After a moment or two he hands a glass to Simon, taking a small sip of his own wine and badly hiding his grimace. Jonah knows he’ll want to chase it with literally anything, knows that if he can’t find something more to his taste to drink that he’ll start grazing on whatever’s being served until he finds a waiter offering something he likes and steal the tray for himself. 

Aleksei looks… sweet. Soft. Like a jar of honey, tipped to one side and allowed to spill golden and slow across a table. 

Jonah wonders if it's his refound youth that makes him look so. When he’d been Tobias, he’d wanted to wrap his fingers around every part of Aleksei and press into him - but Aleksei had let himself get older, then, and had let himself age over the seven or eight years (seven and one half, the Eye reminds him) that they’d dallied and worked and played together. Jonah had almost assumed it was because, as Tobias, he was finally tall and strong enough to physically bend Aleksei to his will the way he’d always done with nothing but words and careful glances. 

But here he is - taller and broader and thicker than Tobias had been, though still just short of Aleksei’s height - and being Geoffrey feels… different. He hadn’t noticed, before, hasn’t had time to explore himself. Jonah doesn’t want to crush or trap Aleksei; he wants to dip his hands in and drink him like clean, sweet water. He wants to press Geoffrey’s long, inkstained fingers into the soft places at his joints and find his pulse the way Jonathan taught him, all those decades past. 

Jonah doesn’t know what he wants, and the Eye doesn’t offer an answer. He half convinces himself it’s worth it to go and say hello to the two of them, and then stops as he sees Maxwell finally make good on his earlier statement. 

Even without Knowing, he can see the way Aleksei’s face changes, the way his body changes and stiffens and curls back in on itself after Maxwell says hello.

He hasn’t tasted Aleksei’s fear in a long, long time. It’s a dull thing, well-used and badly cared-for, antithetical to the terror and exhilaration and love he feels when he’s high up and falling or laid at the base of some huge piece of nature. It feels like the Choke, like Aleksei sinking slowly into the ground, like Aleksei giving up because to struggle will only make it happen faster and worse. Maxwell speaks, and Aleksei downs his entire glass of wine to avoid saying anything, flags down a waiter and plucks a flute of champagne from his tray, and still his light and smile are dimmed. 

Jonah turns away. He Knows that the owner of the estate has some very fine pieces from the recently-opened tombs in the Valley of the Kings, and that they’ll be on display a little bit away from the main gathering. He walks slowly, Knowing as he does that Aleksei will extricate himself from conversation as quickly as possible, and that Simon is not the type to trap him in a situation but that Maxwell is, and that Aleksei will want to drink something else once he’s finished the glass in his hand. He finds somewhere quiet, where he can Watch and wait and prepare for his old friend’s arrival. He knows - not from the Eye but from long, long experience - where Aleksei will want to go, after being upset at a party like this.

He supposes Maxwell knows as well. He supposes he’s unsurprised when he tilts his head and realizes that there are two people, not one, in the shadowed corridor between the foyer and the sitting room where their host’s Egyptian artefacts are kept and displayed. He thinks, and gives a waiter a charming smile and a wink and makes mention of a private party when he takes a tray full of champagne glasses. 

There is an indulgent sort of half-smile in the waiter’s eye when he allows it. In the past - in another day of this very week, even - Jonah might have made note to seek him out later. 

Jonah hadn’t known how to balance a tray of wineglasses. Geoffrey is too clumsy to have ever tried. Tobias, though, had had some experience in the matter, and though it’s difficult to muster up the memory of doing so Jonah finds that he still can remember how to walk and carry without anything slipping or falling. He cheats, a little, by allowing the Eye to nudge at him when he’s letting its weight shift too far in any one direction, but he supposes he would be better at it if he hadn’t been drinking. 

And it gives him extra time to let whatever is happening in the corridor happen. He doesn’t want to interrupt, even though Aleksei’s fear has become pointed, ragged, something with spines. He pauses when he feels Aleksei’s fear sharpen and explode and then sink, exhausted and numb, below something like cool water. He waits for the Knowledge of a second person to leave; he peers just once through the enameled eyes of a small bronze bust, and it’s very dark in the corridor, and Aleksei is standing, panting, with his back to a rich wood panel. 

Jonah snaps his Gaze shut. Aleksei is alone. He heads into the corridor, and Aleksei is still there, eyes shut and mouth pressed into a trembling line. 

“Hello, there,” Jonah says, and Aleksei opens his eyes, unfocused for a moment or two before settling on Jonah’s face, then down to the tray in his hands. “You look like you could use a drink, hm?”

“You’re not a waiter,” Aleksei mumbles stupidly, and Jonah rolls his eyes. 

“Clearly. You looked upset. I thought you’d like it - unless you want me to put it back-?”

“God. No. No, I’m happy to take that off your hands,” Aleksei says, picking up the nearest fluted glass. His hand is shaking badly enough that champagne slops over the edge onto his fingers before he pours the drink down his throat. Jonah’s sure he can’t have tasted it. 

“There’s a sitting room just down there,” Jonah says, watching him scrub his sleeve across his mouth. “We could sit and look at the - there’s-” 

Aleksei is already off, stalking down the hallway - for a moment not a man at all but some beautiful predator, something majestic, something to hunt and be hunted by - and gesturing mutely at the door with his empty glass. Jonah nods, then follows him in.

Aleksei puts the glass down on a beautifully polished antique casket, breathing out a sigh that catches a little on the edges. His hands are sticky, and are leaving marks on the various little trinkets as he picks them up to inspect them, on the glass panels of the display cases.

“Do you like it?” Jonah asks, knowing the answer.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Aleksei asks, still raw, still desperate, trying desperately to hide it. “I think… I think it’s simply remarkable. Don’t you? That people lived and died and were loved by their kin, and then here we are, centuries later, and we know their names now, we know the words for the ways they were loved. It’s… lovely.” 

“Is it?” Jonah asks, putting the tray down. He turns to say something else, and Aleksei faces him again, reaching unsteadily and taking hold of another glass of champagne. 

“Have you ever been to Egypt?” Aleksei asks, and Jonah raises his eyebrows at him. Aleksei drains his glass only a little slower this time, and has a harder time finding where to put it when he’s done.

“I haven’t,” Jonah says evenly. “Are you drunk?”

“ _That’s_ not my name,” Aleksei says reproachfully, then smiles, strained and wide-eyed. “My name… is Alexander Fairchild.”

“Simon didn’t say he had a… brother?”

“Son,” Aleksei alleges. “He’s… my father, yes?”

“He does _not_ look old enough to be your father, Leksi,” Jonah says sternly, and Aleksei laughs brightly and fails to tap the side of his nose. 

“That’s the beauty of healthful and virtuous living, isn’t it?” His laugh hitches, one wrong breath away from a sob. “Good old… good old Dad. Good old Simon.”

“Sit down,” Jonah says, more gently than he could have done as Tobias. Geoffrey has a soft spot, it seems. Aleksei sniffs haughtily and almost doesn’t, but he sways on his feet and decides to allow himself to be steered towards a settee. “When did you start drinking? This is not what happens to you after four glasses.”

“Oh, and you’d know?” Aleksei asks petulantly, draping himself over the couch with an arm over his eyes. “Started… earlier. When Simon told me who’d be here. Thought…” Another one of those chuckling, sobbing laughs. “Thought I wouldn’t be so afraid, if I’d been drinking. Stupid of me. He always does - he’s always done-”

Jonah sits next to Aleksei, his hand on his thigh. He does not mean to thread the Watcher’s tongue through his teeth, but allows its compulsion to color his words anyway. He doesn’t have a new Archivist yet; it’s hungry, and he’s hungry. 

_“What does he always do?”_

Aleksei lets out a soft, keening whimper, sitting up to give his statement.

“He - I’m not afraid of the dark, am I? I love the night, I love alone, I love - but, but he comes when it’s dark and I’m alone, when he _makes_ it dark,” he babbles, wringing his hands, tugging at his gloves. “I’m - I’m so stupid, I know, I know - he doesn’t hurt me every time he sees me, does he? But - but he wants to - he wants to, he wants - a-and he knows I can’t tell any of them, he knows - he knows about my brother, he knows that I-”

Jonah watches him, Watches him. Struggling not to submit to the Eye; he likely could have resisted better if he’d been sober. The words pour out of him like poison, his body wracked with shudders.

“He started… it was such a long time ago,” Aleksei says quietly. “Because he could. Because I didn’t know what else I was there for. Because I was sixteen and it was what I - I expected it, you know? I didn’t know when or who but I knew… I knew it would happen. And it was a relief. I was s-so scared and I was so alone and I was glad because I knew that I was right and that - that it wasn’t anyone I wanted to be with. It wasn’t Jonah or Barnabas or - or anyone I cared about, and - and isn’t that worth something?” he pleads.

Jonah doesn’t say anything, his hand motionless on Aleksei’s thigh. He takes in a shallow breath.

“It hurt the first time. I-It hurt but I was quiet, I didn’t like it but I was quiet, I knew - if anyone knew, they - I couldn’t go back, and they’d make me go back, or turn me out, or turn me in, and I, I couldn’t, if I cried out they’d have - they wouldn’t have believed me, they’re his friends, they-” He bites down on his tongue, afraid not of what he’s saying but of the fact that he can’t stop. 

“Don’t fight it,” Jonah says quietly. “Let the words come.” Aleksei curls in on himself, his shoulders shaking.

“I, I was quiet. H-he said… he said _thank you_ ,” he sobs, wrapping his arms around himself, pressing his fists into his stomach. “He said thank you. H-he said, thank you, a-and he said, that it was - that it was good. A-and that I w-would be… that I would be b-better off if I was good, and quiet, the next time. And… and there was a next time. And there’s always a next time. And it always hurts.”

Jonah doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t take his hand from Aleksei’s thigh.

Aleksei sniffles, his face turned away. He reaches for the tray again, his hand drifting until his fingers grasp the stem of another glass. He drinks, more slowly this time.

“Why haven’t you said anything before now?” Jonah asks. Aleksei bites the tips of his glove’s fingers, pulling it off and scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. He Knows what the answer will be, before Aleksei speaks.

“What would be the point?” he asks dully. “I can… I can tell the Lukases to keep their children away from him. Nearly all the other friends we shared are dead. Barnabas and Jonathan and Robert are… are dead. Albrecht is dead. Mordechai is dead. S-Simon isn’t dead but they’re close, I can’t - I can’t bear the idea of - of Simon knowing and - and choosing him. And Jonah… well.”

Jonah snaps his head up, realizing at once. “Aleksei-”

“Even if Jonah believed me,” Aleksei says quietly, staring into his champagne. “Even if it… I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to… it’s not who I want to be. It’s not who I want to be to him. He…” Aleksei tries to drain the rest of his champagne and twin streams of the sparkling wine run down the corners of his mouth, down his throat and into his collar. Aleksei puts the empty glass on the edge of the tray. “I suppose I don’t want to find out if he would even care. H-he already knows that I’m stupid-”

“Of course I care,” Jonah snaps, catching Aleksei’s wrist before he can pick up another glass.

“-weak, and, and if he just - he might know, he might already, and if he does, I - I don’t want to know he watches it, that he wants to-” 

“Aleksei, stop it,” Jonah hisses, and Aleksei blinks at him, slowly, like a lizard in the sun. 

“Did I introduce myself already?” he asks. Is the darkness in the room darker? Is it solid in the corners, pulled taut, waiting for him to leave Aleksei alone here? 

Aleksei’s head dips down onto Jonah’s shoulder, and he breathes out a sigh. 

“Where are you going after this, Aleksei?” he asks, and Aleksei hums.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? He’ll find me. It always gets dark,” he murmurs, and then, even more quietly, “I’m not even sure if I should run anymore.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous again,” Jonah says. Geoffrey would want to take someone like this home and tuck him into a guest room and wait on him hand and foot. Jonah has no desire to do this himself, but he’s unsettled and disgusted by the idea of Maxwell thinking that Aleksei - _his_ Aleksei, he’s been Jonah’s since he’s been _anyone’s_ \- is something he could toy with and hurt, without any sort of consequence.

“Come. We’ll make our exit together, Aleksei, I’m taking you home, and you’re not going to argue with me,” Jonah says firmly, and Aleksei’s head bobbles up a bit to give him a slightly scandalized grin. “What now?”

“Forward,” he says. “Why, I don’t… I don’t even know your name, sir?”

“It’s Jonah,” Jonah says, and Aleksei’s eyebrows raise a little.

“I know a Jonah,” he says, and Jonah frowns deeply at him.

“That’s me, Aleksei. I’m Jonah. I’m _your_ Jonah,” he says, and when Aleksei opens his mouth to object he surges forward, presses his mouth against Aleksei’s, drags his mouth down the drying champagne on his chin and throat and sucking a small bruise just under the edge of his collar. Aleksei gasps and squirms, and Jonah takes his wrist, pressing a kiss onto the silver crescent of scar tissue on the back of his hand. He turns it, pressing another onto the matching scar on his palm.

“Jonah?” Aleksei breathes out. “You… but… this whole time?”

“Of course this whole time, Leksi,” Jonah says roughly. “It was _very_ obvious that it was me.”

Aleksei gapes at him. “And - and you’ve never been to Egypt?”

“Shut up,” Jonah sighs. Aleksei, as ever, obeys. The rest of their night is abrupt; he gives a laughing goodbye to their host, he gives Simon a small nod as they leave, and he bundles Aleksei into a cab, letting him rest his head in his lap while they’re driven to the comfortable home he keeps near the Institute.

He turns on all of the lights in his house, peeling Aleksei out of his tuxedo and wrapping him in one of his own robes. Aleksei’s nearly awake by the time Jonah has changed into a spare robe and climbs into his bed. Jonah’s hand curls around Aleksei’s hip, Geoffrey’s thumb pressing gentle spirals into the soft flesh there. 

“Don’t leave me,” Aleksei says quietly, gazing at the ceiling of Jonah’s bedroom. He might not even be drunk anymore. “Just… please. Jonah. Don’t leave me tonight.”

“Alright,” Jonah says, and kisses the corner of Aleksei’s collarbone, near his shoulder. “I won’t dim the lights. I’m… sorry. That I won’t be dimming the lights, tonight. I know you don’t like being seen during.”

Aleksei reflects silently on this, before turning towards Jonah, his robe falling open. In the brightness of the lamplight Jonah can see every curve, softness spread out over Aleksei’s broad and muscled frame like a layer of luscious down. Soft hair glints gold up his thighs, across the swell of his belly, across his chest. It is darker on his calves, on his arms, in the stolen glance Jonah gets of his cunt. Aleksei’s hand moves to his face, drawing his gaze away from his body and pulling his mouth close for a slow, sleep-tinged kiss. He still tastes like champagne.

“I’ve come to accept being seen by you,” Aleksei whispers. He kisses Jonah again.

Jonah knows what he wants, and he takes what he’s given. It’s been a long time since he had Aleksei, and he hasn’t yet had anyone as Geoffrey, but he discovers that it is not so different from what it was like as Tobias, either. Geoffrey finishes faster than Jonah is used to, shuddering and spilling over Aleksei’s stomach, brilliantly visible in the lamplight as Jonah watches from dozens of angles. Jonah slips his broad, shaking fingers between them, pressing into him, telling him the things he knows he wants to hear - how good he is, how well he’s doing, how much Jonah wants to see him, how much he wants to hear him - and Aleksei comes all soft-limbed and open and gasping. Not much has changed between them, really.

Aleksei presses his mouth into the crook of Jonah’s neck and slips into sleep before he has a chance to pull away and clean the two of them off. It’s not dark enough for anything to happen, but he’s still loath to leave him. They’ll bathe tomorrow - probably not together, Aleksei is unlikely to put up with being observed much more than he has been - but it’s still prudent to wipe Aleksei off before Jonah’s spare robe is stained beyond all hope. 

It’s only a moment or two before he can climb back into bed and wrap possessively around his sleeping friend, but it feels like far too much time, still. The lamplight is too bright; the shadows that linger are sharper and darker for it. Aleksei shifts a little, and Jonah chases his warmth, pressing his knee between his thighs and burying his face in his chest.

“G’night, Jonah,” Aleksei murmurs into the top of his hair.

“Goodnight,” Jonah says, squeezing him close until he hears Aleksei’s heart. “Leksi?”

“Mm.”

“I’m going to kill Maxwell Rayner.” 

It’s almost enough to stir Aleksei awake. His arm curls around Jonah’s shoulders, and he nuzzles a little into his hair, and then he is asleep, dreaming peacefully of being small among a world of giants and of falling from great heights. Jonah watches him, Watches for him, until the sunlight through the windows dispels and weakens the shadows in the room, and Jonah decides it is safe to let himself sleep, just a little bit. 

**1812**

“It seems a bit simple,” Aleksei says, after a moment, and Robert opens his mouth, then shuts it, frowning. He gives Aleksei an expectant look, but Aleksei stares back at him, aghast at having spoken aloud. He looks ready to flee; he looks ready to apologize for speaking, and Jonah is struck with a deep horror at the thought of his young friend backing away from being a part of all this.

“In… what way?” Jonah prods, and Aleksei turns to him, blushing, then gestures back at the books and maps on Robert’s desk.

“I feel pretty certain there’s more than fourteen things to be afraid of, and they’re all things that people _should_ , you know, be afraid of,” he mumbles. “And - alright, that’s - that’s beside the point, because for everything that you can be afraid of there’s a way to not be afraid of it? So for every thing that pushes power out, there’s got to be something that pushes that power back.” He waves a hand. “Otherwise all of these… fear creatures? Would just be everywhere all at once.”

“It’s not a perfect science,” Robert says, a touch apologetically. “And it’s - it’s really the balance of these things that I’ve been looking into, since there does seem to be a natural order and balance to things as-is, you know. That’s very interesting, Aleksei - the, the idea of there being opposing forces, not just fears that oppose one another but of others. Do you suppose these forces to be separate from the Almighty?”

Aleksei is burning with quiet embarrassment, looking at Jonah for help. Jonah gestures at him to answer, and he takes a deep breath, his hands shaking before he shoves them into his pockets.

“Well, Herr Smirke, I wouldn’t… want to say that,” he says cautiously. 

“Please, call me Robert, my boy,” Robert interjects, and Aleksei nods, catching what is sure to be a smug little smile on Jonah’s face before visibly steeling himself. 

“I’m just… suggesting that there is more in the world than those things we fear,” he says quietly, glancing up at Robert and Jonah, as if for approval. “I mean, even thinking on the nature of fear itself, too, much of fear is rooted in, well. Common sense. Survival. Justification for doing the things we don’t understand. And then it comes back around again to being ignorant of those things, that’s where the fear ends up coming from, isn’t it?”

Aleksei moves for his dwindling glass of wine, taking a short swig to steady his nerves. “Everything that you can fear is something you can… dispel, I suppose.”

“Well, naturally,” Robert says, warming up a bit as he reaches over to refill Aleksei’s glass. “But all-encompassing fear, the fear that eats away at rational thought, the fear that is too powerful to be reasoned away - how would you dispel such a terror, Aleksei?”

Aleksei glances musingly at Jonah, before looking up at the ceiling.

“For one example. I myself am… well, I’m not very, um. Brave. When it comes to feeling… small.” He huffs a small laugh, gesturing at himself, at his great height and broad musculature and the plumpness of his rounded edges. “I realize that in most contexts that is not even a terribly common worry I might have. Standing at the bottom of a sufficiently tall building makes me… nervous. Being in a large enough city, or on the edge of the ocean, or under too open of a sky, or in too wide and old of a forest… it makes me feel… small. Unsafe. I know in my… in my head that I won’t be plucked up from the ground and thrown into the sky, I know that if I stand near the edge of a stairwell I won’t tilt and fall to my death for no reason. But I still… think that it could happen, every time.”

Robert leans forward on his elbows, eyes bright. Jonah can guess what he’s thinking of - the Vast, the Falling Titan - and he knows that only Robert’s desire to allow Aleksei to elaborate on the nature of his terror that prevents him from interjecting with a title for what it is Aleksei fears. 

‘I’m not brave,” Aleksei says quietly. “But I don’t - I-I don’t wish to be paralyzed by cowardice. So I go to the places where I will feel small. Where I will feel unsafe. Does that make sense, Robert? I find buildings and trees and I climb them. I wander a little further into the forest, and I learn trailcraft and I learn how to forage and survive. I lay at the feet of a cliffside, I lay at the middle of an open field, and it… stops being oppressive. I’m still afraid of falling, of being… small. But I let it in. I ask it what it could do. And then I ask myself… if it would be so bad as all that, if my worst fears came true.”

He pauses, glancing nervously at Jonah again. Jonah rewards him with a smile, and his entire face opens up, and Jonah is given a flash of intuition - Aleksei would do many, many things to see him smile like this again. Jonah reaches out, catching Aleksei’s hand and pinning it to the table like one of Jonathan’s butterflies.

“So you think… perhaps you can overcome or overpower fear, by experiencing it, by examining it, by knowing it more fully within yourself?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei hums absently, allowing their fingers to lace together. 

“I don’t know if that’s the way I would say it,” he says, after a while. “The things I’m afraid of can’t be entirely knowable, because… they’re might-be-things, not things that have already happened. I just… I accept them. I accept that I’m going to be afraid, that the fear is in me, that it has me already. I accept that one day the world might stop working and I might be in the sky. And I… I wonder if it might not be a beautiful day, when that happens. If that happens.” 

“That is utterly fascinating,” Robert says, a dreaminess in his tone and expression. “I’ve never yet heard you speak so long on any particular subject, Aleksei. Though I suppose I have you and dear Barnabas to thank for that, Jonah!” 

“Hm?” Jonah and Aleksei glance at Robert, who smiles broadly at them both.

“Well, your English lessons with him have simply been instrumental in expanding his ability to converse with us, you know,” Robert says, and Jonah feels Aleksei tense. Jonah gives Robert a smile and a nod.

“To be quite fair, he has been deeply attentive and an utter delight to teach,” Jonah says, and Aleksei huffs a small laugh. “If a bit of a miscreant. He wasn’t joking about climbing buildings, either, poor Barnabas nearly died of shock to see him on our roof.”

“Oh yes, and you weren’t there all greyfaced and frantic, either, then?” Aleksei teases, but there’s something tense in his body, in his voice, and Jonah wonders briefly if he hadn’t been wrong to mention it. His smile fades a little, and he looks up at Robert. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you tell me about… all this?”

“Merely bringing you into our confidence, my boy,” Robert says warmly. He’s always had a decently high opinion of Aleksei on Luca’s recommendation alone, but Jonah knows that the flash of poetry in Aleksei’s quiet statement about his fear of smallness has sunk its hooks into Robert’s mind, and that his soft bafflement about Robert’s system of classification has sunk its hooks into his heart. Robert wants to explore Aleksei’s reasoning, and explain it, and apply it to the other forces that he considers part and parcel of the construction of those fears, and incorporate it into the Work. 

“As you know, my interest lies not in one singular aspect of Fear but in striking the balance between them,” Robert adds, sitting back a little. “And I’d love to hear your thoughts about the conjunction of these powers, and the idea of there being others to contend with, as well.”

Aleksei gives Robert a shy smile. “Well, to be fair, I’m reasonably certain that I fear every one of those fourteen, so I’m sure you’ll find some way to balance out the effects of one person carrying a bit of everything. Though! I must repeat, Robert, these are all things that any reasonable person would fear? Who wouldn’t be afraid of burning alive, or dying, or falling from a great height?”

“No, I suppose you’re correct there,” Robert says, beaming. “Well, thank you for indulging me, Aleksei. We must do this again sometime. That being said, there’s a party we ought to be getting back to - oh, and Albrecht is here, you’ll finally have someone to converse with in your mother tongue!”

“That’s… lovely,” Aleksei says, and Jonah realizes with some small dismay that he uses the phrase as shorthand for anything he doesn’t know how to react to. He says it every day, including when Barnabas and Jonah are trying to gently solicit his opinion on his meals or his comfort or what he thinks of the day’s events. Jonah is taken, briefly, with an intense desire to understand Aleksei, to know what he truly feels and thinks and wants. 

“Well, we shouldn’t be rude, Leksi, we’ll go and give dear Albrecht a hello,” Jonah says, standing and pulling Aleksei up with him. Aleksei pats frantically at his face and collar, and Jonah takes his other hand, stilling him. “What ails you?”

“I’m… I’m just making sure everything is…” he trails off, and Jonah waves Robert out of the room. Aleksei’s eyes dart to the doorway as it opens, and he flinches bodily when it shuts. Jonah does not marvel that Robert allows himself to be bullied so in his own home; he knows that he gets away with a frightful amount of impropriety among their circle of friends. 

“What are you afraid of?” Jonah asks, neither harshly nor gently. He releases Aleksei’s hands to grasp onto his shoulders; he’s a full head shorter than Aleksei or more, and cannot reach his hair and neck. He can be easy to soothe when he is in these oddly frantic and delicate moods, with the application of a little tenderness in the right places, and he’s spent enough time in the company of Jonah and Barnabas that they both have mastered the art of calming their excitable friend into something near somnolence. From this angle, Jonah must simply make do with stroking his thumbs against Aleksei’s shoulders, but after a few moments, his trembling ceases.

“I… I’m not afraid,” Aleksei lies, and Jonah scrutinizes him for a moment while he squirms. Aleksei turns a pretty shade of pink, and he lowers his eyes. “I might be nervous. Regarding your friend Albrecht.”

“Well, he’s very sweet, if a bit stuffy and bookish,” Jonah says, and at that Aleksei barks out a laugh.

“Coming from you? That’s - that’s certainly - that’s you, is all,” he huffs, and when Jonah tugs on his shoulders he bends obediently. “I recognize his name, is all, and I don’t… I don’t want him to, to say anything, or-”

His words judder to a halt as Jonah wraps his slim, short fingers around his neck, slipping his fingertips under his collar and into the hair at his nape. Jonah’s thumbs brush over the smooth, hairless lines of his jaw, and he lets out a soft sigh. Jonah smiles up at him.

“Everything will be alright, Aleksei. If you’re truly uncomfortable after meeting him, I’ll take you home straightaway, but do allow him the courtesy of meeting you first? He’s always been perfectly pleasant, you see. I don’t want you to be needlessly afraid of a nice man,” Jonah tells him, and Aleksei’s eyes go soft, looking down at him. Jonah is aware, very quietly and slowly, of his wine-stained lips, of the quickening of his pulse under Jonah’s thumbs. 

“Well,” Aleksei says softly. “If it’s you asking then I suppose I must do it.”

“Yes,” Jonah says briskly, releasing him. “You must. Come along, then.” 

Aleksei tenses almost instantly, but he follows behind Jonah anyway, trying - somewhat unsuccessfully - to be quiet and small and escape the notice of the rest of their friends.

“Aleksei! There you are, darling!” Luca is far too bright and sprightly for a man his age, and Albrecht at his side stands, beaming. “I was just telling Albrecht that you two are from similar backgrounds, and he’s simply dying to speak to you!”

“Indeed! My name is Albrecht von Closen,” Albrecht says, coming close. “Luca was just telling me that you’re kin to the Oedekoven family, isn’t that right?”

Jonah tenses a little, despite his reassurances. He would not like to see Aleksei humiliated, and he has long suspected that Aleksei’s reticence on the subject of his supposedly noble family in Bavaria is largely a fabrication, but he does not know how to steer the situation away from this particular subject, and he… if he must confess, he’s a touch curious to see how Aleksei will react to the awkwardness of the situation, if he will retreat into his native tongue or hide himself away in their estate the way Barnabas does, refusing visitors until he can bear to withstand Luca’s teasing again.

“Yes, that’s… correct,” Aleksei says quietly, taking Albrecht’s hand in a bracing grip. “But I haven’t been home in some time, I’m afraid.”

“I should say so! I hadn’t even known there _was_ a fourth brother in your family, though - though I know your lot have always kept very much to yourselves,” he adds, before his face takes on a somber cast Jonah is quite unused to seeing on his normally merry face. “I was very sorry, though, to hear about what happened to your sister.”

Jonah glances sharply at Aleksei, who has gone very pale. 

“Oh,” Aleksei says, his voice brittle. “Yes.”

“What did happen, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jonah inquires, and Albrecht gives him a sorrowful sigh.

“It’s being said young Odessa was lost in the woods near their estate,” Albrecht says sadly, and Aleksei makes a soft, strangled noise, nodding nigh-imperceptibly. “I spoke to Baltasar about it nearly six months past, he and Conrad were in the town together. It seems her passing has truly cast a pall over your family. Why, Gunnar has been out searching for her every day, even… even past the point of when she might have survived.”

He gives Aleksei a wistful little smile. “That being said, I’m very glad you haven’t allowed… this family tragedy to overtake your studies. I’m sure your parents would both be very proud - Robert here was telling me about how recently you’ve mastered English, and Luca has many wonderful things to say about your grasp of the philosophies, young man!”

“Thank you,” Aleksei says. Jonah puts a hand on his shoulder, more to keep him from bolting than for any other reason. He’s a touch annoyed, though mostly with himself for having made a few assumptions over the past few months. “I… I’ve been. Studying quite hard. Yes.”

“Of course!” Albrecht sighs again. “I only wish I had some happier news to bring you of home. I’d met your sister before, did she ever mention?”

“Ah,” Aleksei says, and looks very close to screaming or laughing or both. 

“Actually, Albrecht, I hate to do this to you,” Jonah says quickly, tightening his grip. “I truly do. But I was just on my way to escorting our young man here back to the Bennett estate - you remember my Barnabas, don’t you?” At Albrecht’s nod Jonah pushes ruthlessly forward. “It’s a terrible thing. But I’ll be sure to winkle Barnabas out of hiding soon, and we’ll all three of us have to take some time on a hunt together, won’t we?”

“I - alright, goodbye, Jonah,” Albrecht says, a little startled but certainly used to flights of whimsy from their past interactions. “It was - it was very nice meeting you, Aleksei, you’re your father’s very image.”

Aleksei barely makes a whimper in farewell, and Jonah doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to keep him steady and in his sight if he lets him go. He bundles him out into the cool, early-autumn air, signalling Robert’s valet to send their coach up. Jonah puts him in the coach, tries to coax him down into something like a relaxed position, but he remains rigid and trembling. 

They are nearly halfway home when Aleksei finally looks at him. “He’s going to tell my brothers I’m here. He’s going - he’ll tell them where I am. They’ll make me go back. They-” 

He puts his face in his hands, sobbing. Jonah wraps his arms around his shoulders.

“No,” Jonah whispers into his hair. “No, they won’t dare. You’re staying with us, it’s quite simple. You belong here, you’re ours.” _You’re mine,_ he doesn’t say, but it burns in his chest all the same. “You’re staying. You’re not going anywhere you don’t wish to go, Aleksei.”

“I don’t have a sister,” Aleksei confesses, and Jonah presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“Yes. I know.” Jonah pauses, tightening his arms around him. “Neither do I.” 

Aleksei lets out something that could be a laugh, lets out something that could be a shaken and tear-stained _I knew it_ , lets out another sob. Jonah holds him close, tells him that he is safe, that he’ll remain safe with them. He might even believe it, by the time they get home.

**2017**

Jonah wastes no time at all. He Knows the right number to dial; a weary-sounding woman answers her cell, and he tells her to give the phone to the tall blond man next to her. 

Aleksei looks exhausted, through the eyes of the woman - Roxanne Vargas, the Eye provides, she’s been working at this TGI Fridays for a year and she hates it - and he sounds exhausted when he sighs into the phone. 

“What do you fucking want, Elias?” he asks, and Jonah straightens himself at his desk. 

“Are you enjoying your… pretzel sticks?” he asks, and Aleksei lets out an annoyed growl.

“I’m doing American things. Is this urgent? Is - is Peter hurt?” Jonah Sees him go alert, worry etched into his face. “Elias, is Peter alright, is he-?”

“Peter is perfectly fine. This isn't about Peter. It’s… it’s about you, actually,” Jonah says, and he would know that Aleksei was frowning even if he couldn’t See it. “Do you remember what I promised you, ninety-four years ago?”

“I’m sure if you gave me some time to think on it I could remember everything you’ve ever promised me,” Aleksei says drily. “Less time if you just want a list of promises you’ve actually kept.”

Jonah ignores this, and ignores the way Roxanne makes an O of her lipsticked mouth, pointing in commiseration at Aleksei. He ignores the way Aleksei smiles at her. 

“I’ve kept this one,” Jonah says instead. “Maxwell Rayner is dead.”

Aleksei is silent for a few moments. He licks his lips. His hands are shaking. 

“Elias?” he says softly, cradling his face in his free hand. Grease from the pretzel bread is smearing on his temple and in his graying hair. Roxanne is gazing at him, at the tiny dab of beer cheese that he accidentally got on his sleeve, at the lines on his face and the scraggling beard on his jaw, and she thinks that if he asks she’d go home with him. Mostly because of the accent and because of his sweetness. Jonah ignores this. 

“Yes, Leksi?” 

“Go fuck yourself,” he says, and disconnects. Jonah Watches him eat, and Watches him go home with Roxanne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit due to: fucking simon has fucking too many names and i just noticed that i lost track of them UGH. i do love him though. alas. edit located in 1895 - updated "Simon" to "Jakob"


	2. 1814

**1814**

Jonah comes to sudden awareness at his desk, as careful hands take the pen from his nerveless fingers and brush the curls from his brow. 

“Mm?” he asks sleepily, and he is shushed. “No - no, I’m working-”

“You aren’t,” Aleksei says, sounding amused. “Will you make this difficult or will you make this easy, Jonah?” 

Jonah is of a mind to make it difficult, in fact. He is - or, was - deep in the process of researching and cross-referencing the details of a written statement with historical records, wanting to both supplement his own theories about the event in question and to see if there’s any support for Robert’s suggestions. It’s very important work. The size of it, the shape of it, is very important, even though the precise nature of the work eludes him momentarily.

His thoughts swim about like slinking fish in a muddy pond, rippling under the waves of his exhaustion. His inability to grasp what, exactly, he was trying to prove or disprove momentarily distracts him from the feeling of Aleksei’s hands sliding in around his body.

“Jonesy, you can’t sleep here,” Aleksei chides. “Come on.” 

Aleksei smells of wood-sap and wood-smoke and some esoteric arrangement of spices; he’s colder than Jonah is and his shirt is faintly damp, as if he’s been out in a snowfall. It’s early enough in the spring that they do get the occasional flurry. It’s not too strange, but Jonah also feels that it might be terribly hypocritical of Aleksei to scold him for working so late when Aleksei has clearly been up to no good, himself. He feels himself lifted into Aleksei’s arms, and he noses a little into the collar of Aleksei’s shirt.

“Hush,” Aleksei murmurs into the top of his head, even though he hasn’t said anything. “Are you going to walk or shall I carry you?”

“Neither,” Jonah mumbles. “Just bring me a glass of - of…” He opens his eyes, for he is still held upright in Aleksei’s arms, and there doesn’t seem to be any motion to put him back in the chair at his desk. “...you’re not letting me go back to work?”

“No, I’m not,” Aleksei says cheerfully. “But now I know whether you’re fit to walk yourself. Whose bed do you want, Jonah? Barnabas is here, and I’m here, and your own is always an option, of course.” 

“What have you been up to all night?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei smiles down at him. 

“I’ll tell you in bed, how about that?” he asks gently, and Jonah breathes out a gusty sigh. “Oh, cease with your drama, _liebchen._ My bed or yours?”

“Yours is closer,” Jonah grumbles, and Aleksei tuts at him and lifts him in his arms. Jonah is helpless to prevent being taken in a bridal carry, spluttering faintly at the indignity of being manhandled in such a way. Jonah’s fingers find their way to his shirt and he clutches at Aleksei, the jostle of his steps shaking Jonah further out of sleep. “You could have just nudged me awake and let me get back to work.”

“Could have,” Aleksei agrees. “What did you do today, outside of that office?”

Jonah presses his face into Aleksei’s body, sighing. “I’ll tell you in bed.”

“Oh, drama-drama,” Aleksei singsongs. There is a forced cheer in his voice. He doesn’t sound tired; he sounds like he’s been awake for some time. Jonah suspects that Aleksei will have trouble sleeping tonight. He settles his weight against Aleksei; his plan to _make_ Aleksei sleep would be easier if Barnabas was with them, but perhaps Jonah can arrange for the three of them to retire for the night tomorrow evening. 

The room that Aleksei has called his own for nearly a year and a half used to belong to Barnabas’s father. It had been fully unused for some years, before he and Barnabas had haltingly asked Aleksei if he might like to stay and if he might like this space to be his. It looks different with Aleksei as an occupant. He piles soft things everywhere he can, and has built tables and benches and crude shelves where small potted herbs and trinkets from Luca’s travels and mystifying hunks of stone and seemingly valueless rock may be displayed. Bunches of flowers are strung up along a wall to dry, along with every bouquet Jonah and Barnabas have ever given him. His room - for it must be his, after all this time - always smells green and herbal, like a particularly whimsical apothecary. Jonah almost never feels the dread he used to feel within these walls, now.

Aleksei lays Jonah on the bed, murmuring tender nonsense. It always feels like someone is watching - like William Bennett is any moment going to burst in - when Jonah is laid on the bed like this. The feeling dissipates entirely when Aleksei presses a light kiss to the corner of his jaw, burying his hand under the hem of his shirt.

“Come here,” Jonah sighs at him, and Aleksei says something into his throat. “No. Lay with me a bit, then.”

“You’re not sleeping with that on again,” Aleksei admonishes gently, before sitting up and kneeling astraddle of Jonah’s hips. “Be good for me, Jonah.”

Jonah is too weary even to object to this, or to being disobeyed in general. He allows Aleksei to untuck his shirt, deft fingers reaching up to undo the laces of his corseted stay with the practiced skill of an expert. He allows Aleksei to move his limbs, to shift his weight, to divest him of his shirt and slide the mess of linen and whalebone and cord off of and away from his body. Aleksei’s hands plunge against his sides, and Jonah yelps softly. 

Aleksei freezes over him, trembling minutely. “Jonah? Are - are you hurt, did I-?”

“Hands are cold,” Jonah says, opening one eye to look at him. Aleksei looks deeply relieved and, to be fair, slightly annoyed. “Your turn. Take that thing off.”

“If you say so,” Aleksei says, already reaching obediently for his shirt. Jonah watches him, a weak thread of jealousy running through him even as he admires the angle of Aleksei’s body over his. Jonah puts his hands on Aleksei’s hips, wanting his broad, muscled shoulders, his strong arms and his height and the easy way his body looks almost like Mordechai’s in the right light. His breasts are small enough to fit neatly in Jonah’s hands, when they’re free. It is not much work at all for Aleksei to press himself into a little bit of corsetry; Jonah still needs an extra pair of hands to get into all of his. 

_It is,_ Jonah thinks, half-drunk with exhaustion, _patently unfair,_ and he wants nothing more than to have Aleksei make it up to him somehow. 

Aleksei shifts off and away from him, and Jonah keens softly. Aleksei laughs at that, which is simply terrible. The few candles Aleksei’d left lit go out, and after a moment he mutters something to himself in German and twitches the drapes just open enough to allow a single bar of silver light into the room. It lays across the floor and the bed and Jonah’s lower half in a diffuse, pearlescent glow. 

“Sunrise will knock our heads in,” Jonah murmurs, and Aleksei huffs a laugh over the sound of his clothing rustling. Doubtless he is putting his shirt and trousers aside. He’s not a terribly tidy person, but he likes things to have their own places.

“Window faces north, Jonah, we’ll be fine,” he says softly, and leans over the bed. “Do you need my help taking those trousers off, too?”

“Oh, _yes,_ Leksi,” Jonah says, in what he hopes is his most fetching manner. Aleksei snorts back a laugh, reaching over to gently prise Jonah’s hips and legs out of his remaining clothing. Aleksei takes greater care to put Jonah’s things away neatly, before climbing into his enormous bed and pulling the great quilted blanket he favors over the two of them. Jonah wriggles closer and is displeased to feel that same stark, almost biting chill across Aleksei’s entire body, pressing their hips and thighs and stomachs together before entwining his arms around Aleksei’s waist. He cants his head back a little, watching Aleksei’s eyes as he watches him back. 

“You said you’d tell me what you did today,” Aleksei prompts, and Jonah favors him with a smile. 

“I bathed this morning, and ate a fine breakfast with Barnabas and you, of course, and sat down to work-” He pauses, realizing that there is very little to break up the time between sitting down to work and being lifted bodily away from his desk. “And, did you know, Robert has been telling me a bit, he thinks that the fear of the Flesh, the changing of a living thing into mindless meat, that’s a rather new development?”

“A new development, eh?” Aleksei’s mouth crooks into a faint grin. “And here I thought the fear of being eaten alive has always been a very rational thing to fear for all of mankind. How foolish of me.” He takes gentle hold of Jonah’s leg and wraps it around his waist, walking his fingers from Jonah’s knee to his hip. He always wants to bury himself in Jonah whenever he can, even when they are lying chastely as they are now. “I do love Robert but I should think he’d ought to calm down a bit about all this _terror entity_ business. As should you, Jonesy.”

“Oh, do you think so?” Jonah asks, eyeing Aleksei’s mouth and throat and deciding which one of them he wants. “Well, I surely could not live without your wisdom, Leksi. And what ought I be possessed with instead, pray tell?”

Aleksei does not answer; he bends toward Jonah like a flower starved of sunlight, his face in Jonah’s chest and his arms clutching their bodies ever closer. His shoulders are shaking. Jonah realizes, slowly, that he’s crying. Jonah strokes his shoulders and back, pressing a kiss to his temple, carding his fingers through his damp, tousled hair, and eventually he quiets. 

“You said you’d tell me what you did tonight,” Jonah says softly, and Aleksei shudders in his arms. “Why are you so cold, Aleksei?”

“Was on the roof a bit. Was thinking about the fall. Was thinking about stepping off,” Aleksei confesses, then freezes, raising his head sharply. “I don’t - not in a, not in any sort of way, I just - I just kept imagining it.”

“That’s not the balm to my nerves that you think it is,” Jonah says evenly, and Aleksei shuts his eyes.

“I don’t - that’s not what I meant, I didn’t mean to say that,” he says, and Jonah thinks he might be lying, and could not say for certain how he knows it. Aleksei sucks in a breath, his face cold against Jonah’s breast. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Jonah. I just… it’s so high up. The fog came in thick tonight, and I was thinking about - about what it would look like if something dropped in, all the swirls, you know? And then I thought about what it would look like if a person was the thing dropping through it, what it would look like from the - from inside the fog. The time must have got away from me, though. I meant to come in sooner and - and make sure you were put to bed, before now.”

“Why _didn’t_ you come in?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei is so cold against him. 

“Maybe I did,” he offers weakly. “Maybe I came in from the fog, and you didn’t notice, and then I went back out.” Aleksei shifts against him, stealing Jonah’s warmth, hands searching aimlessly from his back to his hip and then back again, as if memorizing every plane and curve. “I, I was, I thought for sure that - that you wouldn’t notice. I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t think you’d notice me, Jonah. I-”

Jonah caresses his cheek for a moment, pressing his thumb to his lips to hush him before sinking his fingers into his hair again.

“Kiss me,” Jonah commands sleepily, and Aleksei breathes out a sigh of relief before rushing to obey. 

**1856**

It’s a party. End-of-year fundraising and celebration and an accounting of what the Institute has gathered and expanded upon, and a way to give people a chance to learn more about their pursuits. And it’s Christmas, and even though he has little interest in the holiday itself, Jonah has allowed his Institute's reception hall to be decorated in the new style, green boughs across the mantle and garlands of bright cloth and strung glass beads across the staircase and wrapped ‘round the tall evergreen that was felled this morning. He misses the quiet of his own home; he is no longer the young man he was, and his sixty-fifth birthday is encroaching sooner than he’d like. 

It unnerves him a little, to think of himself as an old sixty-four. He doesn’t feel all of it, he’s sure. Not like Luca, who’d spent decades looking like a granddad, spent a summer or two in the Alps with Aleksei, and come back to them a fresh-faced young man and calling himself Giacomo. Jonah _is_ sure that inside of him he’s a man in the last hale years of his life, but… Jonah does not wish to be. He misses the person he was. He finds he does not think of himself as being as old as he is, not truly. 

He gazes into his glass of port, allowing firelight from his grand entryway to illuminate it like a jewel in his hands. For a moment he thinks that truly he _must_ only be the bright-eyed and heartless and beautiful youth he’d been, wearing the skin of an old man, but the moment passes. The room goes cool and dull, and the red of his wine fades to an old and unsettling brown, very like the color of an old splash of blood long left to dry and settle into carpet. Jonah exhales slowly, and his breath steams before him. 

Mordechai stamps over to him, face set in a grim frown. There are no other partygoers. It is just them, alone and forgotten by the others.

“Thank you for coming,” Jonah tells him, and he fixes his mouth in a fierce scowl, his eyes riveted to the ground. Mordechai used to be able to look him in the face, used to love gazing sharply at him, peering into his eyes to make him uncomfortable. Mordechai hasn’t been able to look Jonah in the face in a long, long time.

“I’m leaving,” Mordechai says flatly. Jonah takes a sip of his flat and flavorless wine, waiting for an explanation for the sudden departure, but Mordechai says nothing else for several moments. Jonah sighs, and every one of the years he imagined had left him come rushing back into his bones, all at once. 

“I asked you beforehand if the crowd would be a problem for you, and you told me it wouldn’t,” Jonah remarks. “Are you allowing your Noah the chance to stay and enjoy himself, then, or shall the entire Lukas contingent be fleeing the premises?”

“The abomination is here,” Mordechai says flatly, casting his gaze towards Jonah - not to his face, never to his face, but towards somewhere in the middle of Jonah’s torso. In their youths Jonah would have teased him over it, but he finds he is… tired. And annoyed.

“He’s not an abomination, any more than you are,” Jonah remarks, massaging the bridge of his nose to try to relieve the tension headache coming on. “I didn’t invite him, but he should be considered as welcome as any of us. You can’t think he’s anything less than Maxwell or even - even Giacomo, Mordechai-”

“You didn’t see him,” Mordechai hisses. That decades-old argument. Mordechai’s voice, harsh with disuse, crackles. “You didn’t see his body hit the ground, Jonah. It _cratered_ the lawn, and it laughed. It laughed and wept and reached for me with his hands, his life’s blood oozing from his ears and nose and eyes and mouth. It called me by name and it used his voice and that _thing_ is not the man we knew. He died, Jonah. _That thing_ walks in his skin and is not him. I will not have it tempt my kin into early graves at its hands, Jonah.”

“He’s still the man you loved once, Mordechai,” Jonah mutters, closing his eyes. This is altogether too like the paranoia of - oh, and now he hears the sounds of partygoers again, the rustle and shuffle and murmur of dozens of people. It is no longer cold in the room, but he feels… lonelier, now, than he had when Mordechai was here. Fancy that. 

Jonah opens his eyes, and wishes Mordechai were still here. He finishes off his port, which looks and tastes like wine again. It is small comfort against the twinge of loneliness; he supposes he can’t begrudge Mordechai what little enjoyment he might take of this night’s gathering, though. Jonah steps away from the fireplace and goes looking; it does not take long.

The girl is pretty enough. Jonah had always been only very mildly interested in women, outside of a few noted cases. She strikes him as familiar - her hair in dark ringlets piled artfully and pinned half up, the cast of her eye and nose and curving lips striking in their way. She is dressed rather well, for a crowd of academics and local lords, in a gown of sweeping silk in a delightful sky-blue and edged with pearl-and-cream ribbon and lace. Jonah realizes where he knows her - the Lady Anne King, which means, presumably, that her father William is also in attendance. It is difficult to say if William is nearby, though, because all Jonah can see now is her pale neck, her delicate hands cradled gently in Aleksei’s.

Jonah finds himself staring. He finds he cannot look away. Aleksei is all brilliance- gold hair dashed artlessly to one side, gold skin incongruous with the blustery winter weather, his smile, his laughter, the gently teasing lilt to his voice as he raises it a little, the gently teasing tilt to his head as he bends close to whisper something in her ear. He looks beautiful, he looks to be thirty years Jonah’s junior or more. He does something clever that takes up her attention, soaking him in her gaze, and she laughs with delight.

She can’t be more than nineteen, the age he was when-

-Aleksei raises his eyes and smiles. It is _so_ bright.

“The man of the hour himself,” he says, and Jonah hurries close. Aleksei has had trouble remembering, sometimes, when a room is small enough not to need his shouting. Aleksei gives Jonah a wolfish grin, and he can _feel_ his eyes rake over him like a roaming hand as he draws near. “I was just telling Annabella here that we know her Lady mother. Speaking of which, where-”

“I beg your pardon entirely, but I’m afraid I have to divest you of your companion for now,” Jonah says, a touch forcefully. To Anne King’s credit, she merely smiles and raises an eyebrow; he suspects but does not know that she’s put together that Aleksei has been gone for some years, and was just about to ask after the whereabouts of her mother, Ada. This close, some of the shine is off of him - the boutonniere at his breast is a wildflower and an exotic fern, tied to a lichen-covered twig, and there are tiny seed-carriers stuck to his sleeves and collar and even in the tangle of his hair. He looks as though he were rolled through the underbrush of some verdant forest before getting dressed.

Aleksei’s eyes are wide and wild, and there is a twitch in his mouth and hands, a wind-swept quality about his hair. There is an intensity to him that would frighten many people; Jonah supposes, a touch wryly, that either Anne is a remarkable young woman in her own right, or perhaps Aleksei has done what Mordechai always fears he will do, and caused in her an unearthly love of earth’s own vast spaces.

The twitch in Aleksei’s hands becomes a tremor, as he grasps onto Jonah’s with an unsettlingly firm grip. Jonah gently steers him upstairs, in the hopes that he might find a little more comfort there.

“I’m being quite good,” Aleksei whispers pleadingly. “Am I not being _very_ good for you, Jonesy?”

“You are being unsettling, Leksi,” Jonah replies, and leads him further onwards and upwards. “How did you know to come here?”

“It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” Aleksei says, sounding almost… unsure. “It is, everyone says so.”

“It is,” Jonah asserts. “Which doesn’t explain why you’re here, you know. You don’t even believe in the existence of the Almighty, unless there’s been some drastic change in you recently.”

“It’s Christmas,” Aleksei repeats doggedly, and Jonah gives him a tug, into his office. The windows are tall and show a great expanse of rolling Scottish moorland. “I wanted to see you. I didn’t know there’d be a party.” He pauses, likely to admire the view for a moment before saying, hesitantly, “Didn’t I see Mordechai, earlier…?”

“You did, and now he’s gone,” Jonah says, pouring himself a glass of a local whisky. He glances at Aleksei, who hasn’t aged a day in the five years since he last saw him. He pours a glass for Aleksei, too. “He left because you’re here. It is entirely your fault, in fact.”

“But I miss Mordechai,” Aleksei says, taking the glass in both of his, looking forlornly into it. “Doesn’t he miss me, then?”

“He misses you terribly, Aleksei, but you know that he-” Jonah stops himself, sighs. He sips from the glass. “You know that Mordechai is afraid that you’ll hurt his sons the way Giacomo hurt you.”

“Giacomo?” Aleksei asks blankly, and Jonah gestures.

“Luca. He changed his name to Giacomo sometime in the forties, remember?”

“Oh. No, I… I forgot. He still answers to Luca when we speak, when we… when we last spoke,” Aleksei says, and Jonah tilts his head at him.

“And when was that?” 

Aleksei opens his mouth, then closes it, brow furrowing. He takes a sip of his whisky, and immediately pulls a face.

“I hope I never see you do that again,” Jonah says wryly, and Aleksei puts the glass on his desk, pouting visibly. The moon is very bright; it catches the gold in Aleksei’s hair and turns it to spun glass, and the silver in his eyes to something almost like starlight. “You’ve got to grow up a bit when it comes to what you drink, Aleksei.”

“Luca didn’t hurt me,” Aleksei says quietly, and Jonah does not answer this. Aleksei’s mouth sets. “Luca loves me. He didn’t hurt me, Jonah-”

“I saw what he did,” Jonah says, a touch sharply. “I was there. Or have you forgotten?”

“Luca loves me,” Aleksei repeats, rolling his shoulders. He rakes a hand through his hair, and a few small green-white things fall out - flowers, Jonah notes, very small and delicate. He wonders briefly where they came from. Aleksei is restless, pawing at the blotter on Jonah’s desk, at his pen, at the papers and books stacked neatly to one side. Jonah is put in mind of a caged lion he’s seen - not the horrifying false one in the queer troupe Robert told him of, but the thin and rangy lion he saw in a menagerie once. It had paced and swiped at its own face and the collar it wore, ignoring the meat in the corner of its narrow cage to gaze furiously out at the people gathered nearby. 

Jonah puts a hand on Aleksei’s elbow, and he stops, visibly confused. Jonah watches him, and eventually he remembers himself, picking up his drink. “I… I was, ah-"

“You were telling me that Luca never hurt you, because he loves you,” Jonah says, and Aleksei nods faintly. “What do you _think_ he did to you, that night?”

Aleksei settles, a dreamy expression on his face. He turns toward Jonah, and for a moment the moonlight catches in his eyes, turning them a luminous, catlike yellow-green. He picks up his glass, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the pattern of the cut crystal. Jonah wonders where his gloves have gone. 

“Luca came and it was night,” Aleksei says, smiling faintly. “It was cold, I think. Not my birthday yet, was it? October?”

“Yes,” Jonah agrees. It had been late October, and an unusually cold one, and they’d been together. Jonathan had been conspiring with Mordechai and Barnabas to surprise Aleksei for his birthday, and Jonah had been tasked with keeping Aleksei away from their planning. Luca had gone off on a long walk, they’d all thought. 

“You and I were in the guest room, and we were looking out the window. The stars were so nice, weren’t they? Like a great dark field, scattered with daisies,” he says, then waves a hand. “I don’t know. Not daisies. Snowdrops? I don’t know. We were admiring the sky, you and I.”

“That’s a delightful euphemism,” Jonah says drily. They’d been sitting together in the windowseat, half in each other’s laps, Jonah’s lips on Aleksei’s throat, and neither of them had even noticed the night sky for quite some time. Aleksei had hummed and turned his head to one side-

_-his face pale, eyes round and startled, a tiny exhalation leaving his lips, not of ardor but of sudden dismay, his gaze trained on the sky outside, a whispered question, couldn’t we shut the curtains, jonesy? and the tremble in his hands, his sudden hiss, there’s someone outside, jonesy, someone watching -_

“And - and I wanted to step out and see them better,” Aleksei says, taking a small sip of his whisky, allowing it to roll around his mouth a bit. Jonah doesn’t speak, and merely remembers.

“And Luca came,” Aleksei says, angling himself toward Jonah a little. “He came because he loves me. Do you love me, Jonah?”

“You know how I feel,” Jonah says mildly. Aleksei sips at his drink again. 

“Luca came,” he murmurs. “And he was beautiful. Don’t you think so?”

Jonah hadn’t even known at first that it _was_ Luca standing on the sloping, tiled roof. He remembers looking outside the window to see a teenaged boy, grinning toothily at them through the glass. He remembers stupid, brave Leksi jumping to his feet, fretting about the boy’s safety, moving to open it, to gather the boy into the room. No matter how scared he’d been, he’d been overtaken by the urge to care for the strange, fey boy outside. 

“I think he looked quite young,” Jonah says carefully. “He was standing on our roof. You were worried that he might fall.”

Aleksei gives him a soft, puzzled smile. “Why should I be worried for dear Luca? He couldn’t be hurt by falling.”

Jonah says nothing, sitting down in his desk chair with a creaking at his hips and knees. Aleksei does not let the silence linger overlong between them.

“Well, at any rate, I opened the window, and he was there, and he was so sweet,” Aleksei offers. 

Jonah remembers: too-white teeth, wind-swept hair, the way Aleksei must have seen what Luca was going to do, the way Aleksei had cringed back but it was simply too late, by then. He remembers the impossibly young Luca grasping Aleksei by the collar and yanking him outside as if he weighed nothing. He remembers Aleksei’s sudden, sharp cry of alarm, and the blustering wind that screamed into the room where they’d been warm and together and safe.

“Luca showed me the sky, and how vast it is, and how our whole world was nothing but the mote in some fantastic creature’s shadow as it swims through the stars,” Aleksei continues, before giving Jonah a small smile. “I wish you could have seen it, Jonah, it was so beautiful.”

Jonah remembers: Luca suspended in the still night air, holding Aleksei by the collar, Aleksei’s shoes scrabbling and skittering for any sort of purchase on the rooftop as Luca whispered something in his ear, Aleksei sobbing with terror, tears streaming down his face as he clutched at Luca’s sleeve, as Luca held him aloft with one hand, Aleksei’s blue cravat pressing cruelly into his throat as Luca’s fist tightened in the silk ‘round Aleksei’s neck.

“I have seen the stars before,” Jonah says quietly. “What then, Leksi?”

“And then he gave me flight,” Aleksei sighs, peering into his glass and draining what’s left of it. “He gave me flight and I knew peace. It was… it was nice.”

Jonah does not tell him that the sight of his friend begging not to be hurt or killed wasn’t nice, or that it wounded Jonah deeply when Aleksei had called out to him, begging for help, _jonah please help me please i can’t i can’t i can’t,_ or that Jonah had been frozen in terror, helpless with the realization that he was watching his dear Aleksei die a month before Aleksei’s twentieth birthday. 

“Do you remember what that first flight felt like?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei stretches a little, shrugging. 

“I don’t. I don’t think I do? There have been so many since,” he admits. He tilts his head a little, birdlike. “But it must have been lovely, because it was flight.”

The terrible child, brilliant with moonlight and some unnatural light of his own, sweeping Aleksei over the edge of the roof in one fluid motion. The tears glimmering on Aleksei’s face as he realized what was going to happen, what was already happening. The strange flicker as, for just a second after Luca let go, Aleksei fell _upwards_ before plummeting to the ground below. His shriek of terror, echoing in Jonah’s ears. The sudden end to his scream, punctuated by the noise of a huge and terrible impact outside. 

Luca had given Jonah a beaming smile, had merrily informed him that he simply couldn’t stand by and allow _his_ Leksi to be taken up by Jonah any longer, that the Eye couldn’t have him, that he’d belonged to the Titan first. Luca, grinning and bouncing gleefully on the tips of his toes, crowing that he would have his Leksi forever now, that they were brothers now, that he loved Leksi and that they’ll have ever so much _fun_ now.

And then he’d winked, and told Jonah he wasn’t surprised that Jonah had allowed him to make their Leksi beautiful now. Jonah had always been one for watching. From the window Jonah could hear the strangled sound of Aleksei’s laughter, far below.

Mordechai had seen Aleksei land, and he’d screamed for Jonathan, and carried Aleksei indoors so Jonathan might do what he could. Mordechai _had_ taken it hardest, Jonah thinks, when Aleksei started behaving strangely. Jonah’d never told Mordechai that Aleksei had been _thrown_ , that he hadn’t jumped. He’s not sure if Mordechai would have believed him. Their dear Leksi had always been one to gaze, sick with dread and wanting, at the edges of high places. 

Jonah sits in silence, and Aleksei approaches him with some measure of caution in his movements. 

“You’re upset, Jonah,” he says, and Jonah shakes his head.

“You and I remember that night very differently, that’s all,” he says quietly. 

“You’re sad,” Aleksei says, barely a whisper. “Oh, why are you sad, Jonesy-dear?”

“I’m not sad,” Jonah huffs, and Aleksei licks his lips with a curious sort of yawn. Jonah thinks again of the lion he saw, once. He leans back and sighs. “Come here. Knees.”

“Why?” Aleksei asks, but he obeys, eager to be good, kneeling at Jonah’s feet. He mouths at Jonah’s thigh, eyes bright and gleaming like the surface of an old snowfield. Jonah cards his fingers through Aleksei’s hair, mussing it, pressing his face against the inside of his thigh. Aleksei takes hold of his hips, and all Jonah can think of is that he is a man of thirty somehow, with the appetites they both had as men of thirty. It’s been five years since they were in the same place at the same time, and Jonah appreciates the sight of him, but… but he simply doesn’t want what Aleksei, baring his teeth in a strange grin, wants. Aleksei will be roaming the skies and the forests, young and strong and every movement a vibrance, for years - decades, centuries - after Jonah dies. The thought of it turns his stomach against the wine he had earlier.

“I’m tired, Leksi,” Jonah tells him, and Aleksei turns, giving his thumb a playful nip. “I wonder if I should tell you to go. You’ve quite ruined the party for me, you know.”

“In a - in a good way?” Aleksei asks, and Jonah stares evenly down at him, and he squirms between Jonah’s legs. “I thought… it’s Christmas.”

“Yes. You’ve said.” Jonah pulls his hands away, lest Aleksei get any other ideas about biting him. “And you weren’t invited to this party, were you? Perhaps you _should_ leave.”

Aleksei lets his hands drift up Jonah’s sides. Aleksei presses against his front, feeling lighter than Jonah would have expected, and he stares into Jonah’s eyes, and Jonah stares back at him.

“Thought I was welcome here. You said this was my home once,” he says, very quietly. “You said _you_ were my home once.”

“You’ve been away,” Jonah replies stiffly. “You forgot to grow up.”

“No I haven’t,” Aleksei says, leaning back. “You just don’t _like_ it. You could have followed me, Jonah. You’d been the Eye’s before you ever met me, and you could have been like me, if you’d wanted.”

“You really think I was going to let something do to me what you let Luca do to you?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei’s eyes widen. “You can’t think I would have wanted to die for-”

Jonah pauses, his eyes narrowing sharply as he regards Aleksei’s face. It is pale and drawn in the moonlight, and he almost does look older like this.

“You don’t… you don’t truly _believe_ the version of events that you’ve been telling yourself the last forty years,” Jonah says slowly. “Of course you don’t. You’ve always been a practiced liar-”

“Jonah,” Aleksei says, standing now, stepping back. “Why are - why do you say this?”

“-do you believe your own lies, every so often? Do they let you forget the way you begged and screamed and wept while you dangled?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei bumps into his desk in his bid to escape, eyes on Jonah’s face. “I wonder, Leksi. I wonder how many things you’ve deluded yourself into thinking the last few years. How long does the forgetting last, Leksi? Years, surely. And yet here you are, still coming back ‘round to pester me forty years after you ought to have died.”

“You’re _trying_ to make me go away,” Aleksei says, his voice shaking. Jonah stands up from his chair and Aleksei - huge, strong Aleksei, who stands more than a head taller than Jonah ever did, who Jonah once saw carry a yearling ewe over his shoulders during a sudden downpour on a visit to a neighbor’s farmland even before he ever became Sky-touched - flinches back. It disgusts Jonah; his hand is not so firm and his arm is not so strong as it was, and Aleksei doesn’t do anything to stop it from striking him across the face.

“I’ve already told you to go away,” Jonah snaps. “And here you are, still.”

“Jonah, stop,” Aleksei says, his voice high with some strange, curdling panic. “Why do - no, no, what do you want? Jonah, I’ll do what you want, love, just tell me what you do want?”

Jonah advances, and Aleksei scrambles back and away, one hand raised. Not to protect himself, or to hurt Jonah - anger flares in his chest, that Aleksei would try _placating_ him, of all things. His hand closes on the neck of his whisky-bottle, still sitting out on his desk.

“I don’t want anything of you,” Jonah spits out. Aleksei’s fear is sharp and bright on his face. Jonah’s anger turns to true rage, then - how dare, he, this blundering ox of a man, fear Jonah the way he used to fear falling, the way he used to fear his brother? Jonah swings his fist, and only registers the thick, sturdy bottle clutched in it when it bounces off Aleksei’s shoulder and chest. Aleksei stumbles back, and Jonah’s first impulse is to snarl at him, “ _Stop moving._ ”

Aleksei can’t help but obey, his limbs locked and his spine ramrod-straight, and the bottle breaks against the side of his face in a shower of shattered glass and amber liquid and a sudden spurt of crimson. Jonah picks up Alekseii’s empty glass, and Aleksei moves back, hands in front of him, pleading. 

“Jonah, don’t, don’t, don’t,” he’s stammering, and Jonah doesn’t know if he means to throw the glass at him or merely smash it like an egg against the unbloodied curve of his forehead. He moves close, and Aleksei’s hand wraps around his wrist, still yammering away at him to stop-

-and there is a moment of vertigo before Jonah registers that he is being pulled, hurtling upward so quickly that the air whistles in his ears and steals the breath from his lungs. Aleksei’s hand is clamped around his arm, still. His body knows that it is dropping before he can understand and know it - his stomach roils, his heart bursting high in his throat, and still he cannot breathe or hear or speak, tears streaming unbidden from his eyes-

-and he is standing in his office, panting, and Aleksei lets go of him, and Aleksei’s crying.

“Jonah oh - oh no, Jonah, I - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please, Jonah, please be alright, I didn’t mean it-” he babbles, and Jonah raises his head, staring Aleksei into silence that stretches for several seconds. The silence breaks with the sound of shattering crystal, as the glass Jonah’d been holding finally catches up with reality. 

The room feels colder than it had, before. Jonah’s heart is hammering against the inside of his chest. Tears cut through the drying blood on Aleksei’s face. Jonah steps forward, the glass crunching under his soles, and Aleksei backs away until he jostles the bookshelves lining the wall.

“Do you know,” Jonah says, his voice catching in his throat, “what Gunnar would have done if he’d successfully caught you and brought you back to Bavaria, Aleksei?”

The Watcher opens inside of him, and its impulse stains his teeth as he asks in its Voice, “ _Do you want to know, Aleksei?_ ”

“No,” Aleksei moans, cowering. “No, I don’t want to know, Jonah, don’t, please-”

“He had a plan, you know,” Jonah tells him. “He was so angry, after you left - creeping away like a thief - and if he’d caught you those first few weeks he would have dashed your brains out against the nearest stone. He couldn’t help it, though, you know you have that effect on people.”

“Jonah, please,” Aleksei whimpers, his face in his hands. “Please, Jonah, I - I’ll go, I’ll do as you ask, please let me go-”

“And you were so ungrateful, Aleksei,” Jonah continues relentlessly. “After everything he’d done to make sure you were _comfortable,_ after everything he’d done to be sure you’d _enjoyed_ yourself. And you did enjoy yourself, didn’t you?”

“Leave m-me alone, Jonah, I - I don’t w-want to talk about-” Aleksei says, growing ever more frantic. He claps his hands over his mouth, fresh tears rolling down his face. He curls up into himself, fog from the open window curling around him like the tail of a cat, and Jonah knows that if he gave himself more fully to the Beholder he _could_ know, he could _make_ Aleksei answer him-

-Jonah stops himself short. The window isn’t open.

“You heard him, Jonah,” Mordechai’s voice is at his shoulder. “Leave him alone.” 

Jonah does not startle. He turns slowly, and Mordechai is not looking at him at all. 

“You said your family would be leaving,” Jonah tells him, and Mordechai nods.

“I didn’t say when I’d be going with them,” Mordechai responds flatly. He turns towards Aleksei, who flinches back, tries to make himself smaller. His blood has ruined his clothes, and his gaze darts between the two of them, and Jonah Knows that Aleksei has come to a singular conclusion about what Mordechai must want to do now. They’d all followed Jonah’s lead when they were younger, and Mordechai is still as tall and broad and strong as he’d ever been despite what the years have made of his wrinkled face. 

Mordechai looks at Aleksei for a long time, and Jonah watches Mordechai. Jonah knows the cast of his downturned mouth, and understands that Mordechai knows - even without the Knowing - what Aleksei thinks is about to happen to him. 

Mordechai is used to being feared. It should not disquiet him to be feared by an old friend. Aleksei knows what happened to Barnabas, after all.

Aleksei doesn’t try to escape. He tucks his arms around himself, head lowered, visibly bracing for a blow. 

Mordechai is silent. Jonah’s anger fades, though that might just be the effect of the Forsaken in the room. 

“Well,” Jonah says. “I suppose you might wish to stay for the rest of the evening, Mordechai. Aleksei was just leaving.”

Aleksei looks up, pathetically hopeful, though the expression on his face settles into dread as he seems to realize that crossing the room to either the doorway or the window will require passing within striking distance. 

“I’m not staying,” Mordechai says, stepping past Jonah toward Aleksei. There is a brief moment of panic on Aleksei’s face, before Mordechai hesitantly extends his open hand, palm up. Fog seeps out of his sleeve. “I’m sending you home. Where are you living now?”

Aleksei gapes at him for a moment, before nervously licking the blood off of his lip. 

“I… I don’t know,” Aleksei admits, eyes darting toward Jonah for a moment. “Planned on… on staying in Edinburgh, but I don’t… I don’t know. I could… I c-could… I, ah-”

“Aleksei,” Mordechai says quietly. Aleksei trails off into silence, biting his lower lip. “Choose a place. I’m sending you there.”

Aleksei casts one final, longing glance Jonah’s way, before steeling himself a bit. Jonah’s hand and wrist and back are all aching from the last few minutes of activity. Jonah isn’t even sure that any of Aleksei’s wounds are still open, under the blood. “Anywhere that isn’t here, please.”

“Alright,” Mordechai responds. Neither of them look at Jonah again. Mordechai takes Aleksei’s trembling hand. In a moment they are gone, taking the fog with it.

Jonah looks at the scattered glass and the pool of blood and whisky on the floor. He supposes he will have to call for the maid rather sooner than later.

**1814**

Jonah does not know what to think of the mess before him, and of the three men, only one of them is particularly inclined to obedience. Jonah tilts his head at Aleksei, who tries very hard not to make eye contact. He looks at Mordechai, who is successfully avoiding eye contact by gazing resolutely at the ceiling. He turns to Jonathan, who is staring defiantly back at him. He could probably choose Aleksei for this, but then Aleksei would start crying. Jonathan it is.

“Jon,” he says pleasantly. “Why, might I ask, are the three of you covered in pond scum and dripping into the floorboards?”

“Well, as you may be aware, Jonah, there’s a small loch at the edge of Barnabas’s estate,” Jonathan says, and Jonah gestures at him to continue. “It’s in a simply dreadful state, is the thing. The algae and floating greenery in it blend extremely well with the green of the grassy hillocks surrounding it. In fact, from the top of one such hillock, one might be hard-pressed to realize that the smooth, leafy greenery of the water was not some gentle field, valleyed between the rolling hills.”

“Hm,” Jonah says. He flicks his gaze away from Jonathan in time to see Mordechai hastily pulling something out of Aleksei’s trouser pocket and tucking it into the breast pocket of his sopping wet waistcoat. “But, dear Jonathan, surely by the time one walked up to the edge of the loch, one would realize that it was not, in fact, a grassy field.”

“That’s precisely correct,” Jonathan says, chin out and shoulders back. “However, the three of us were not, at that time, walking. You recall the old wooden cart that Barnabas said we could make use of, do you not?”

“I recall that he said he didn’t care what you did with it and that he hoped you’d enjoy its use,” Jonah says. Jonathan stands with arms akimbo, dislodging some of the pondscum on his shoulders with a wet _splat_. Aleksei and Mordechai are edging closer together, though they both stop moving when one of their shoes makes a loud squeak against the floorboards. 

“Well, there you have it,” Jonathan says firmly. “It wasn’t being used by anyone. Mordechai and Aleksei spent the morning repairing it handsomely. Both the original iron wheels had been thoroughly rusted and bent, and they devised a very clever set of strong, sturdy wooden wheels to replace them. You ought to commend their ingenuity, in fact-”

“Alright, I shall do so,” Jonah says, and Jonathan snaps his mouth shut. “Where is the cart, then? I’d love to see the repairs.”

“It is no more,” Jonathan says resolutely. “It lies at the bottom of the loch.”

Jonah looks at Mordechai and Aleksei, both of them soaked to the bone. The small, moving lump that Mordechai had rescued from Aleksei’s pocket pokes webby-fingered paws and a pair of round eyes out of the top of Mordechai’s breast-pocket. He looks back to Jonathan.

“I suppose this story tells itself, doesn’t it? You three mended a cart, and then… rolled in it, down the hill, thinking the greenery before you was solid ground, and discovering rather too late that it was, in fact, water,” Jonah says mildly. “Do I have the right of it, gentlemen?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Aleksei mumbles, and Mordechai nods. 

“And may I ask why, then, the three of you pushed what is normally a horse-drawn cart up to the top of a hill with the… apparent purpose of climbing aboard and rolling it down a hill and across a field, which would have likely resulted in its destruction anyway?”

Jonathan opens his mouth, then shuts it, coloring prettily. 

“We - we were performing research,” Mordechai suggests, and Jonah turns and directs the full force of his gaze at him. Mordechai flinches slightly, looking down. “We were testing the limits of our… fear of the crash? For you. You and Robert, obviously.”

“ _Obviously,_ ” Jonah repeats, and Aleksei and Mordechai exchange a guilty look. “And did you, in fact, experience anything noteworthy or unexpected from this action?”

“Yes, actually,” Aleksei pipes up, grinning nervously. “We got wet at the end.”

Jonah inhales slowly, and exhales, just as slowly. “Mordechai, release the frog sitting in your pocket outside, before it gets loose in the house. Aleksei, call on Madeleine to come clean up this mess and to draw baths for the three of you. Jon?”

“Well, yes, Jonah?” Jonathan blusters, and Jonah gives him a short, sharp smile.

“Come with me.” Jonah leads him to a linen closet and offers him a small towel, which Jonathan grudgingly accepts. He glances over Jonathan’s shoulder, to where Mordechai and Aleksei seem to be conspiring together about the small frog cradled in Mordechai’s enormous hands. Something in the way they stand - shoulders touching, heads bowed together - stokes a curious sort of annoyance in Jonah. He’s deeply pleased that his friends enjoy one another’s company, he truly is, but-

-well, he’s not even very certain as to why he isn’t _more_ pleased that his friends are also friendly with one another. It just seems ill-fitting that they might have their own relationship outside of their relationship to him.

“Jonah,” Jonathan says, still patting the water from his face and hair and neck. “You’re staring, you know.”

“Well, technically, I’m merely looking in a single direction,” Jonah says, and Jonathan gives him a fond smile. 

“Gazing aimlessly in the direction of our friends, yes,” he replies, examining Jonah’s face for a moment. “We thought you’d be out with Barnabas when we came in. We truly didn’t intend to startle you.”

“I wasn’t startled,” Jonah murmurs, and narrows his eyes when Mordechai - ever more reluctant to touch or embrace even his closest friends in their circle of peers - puts a cautious arm around Aleksei’s shoulders and laughs. Jonah glances back at Jonathan, who is giving him an altogether too knowing smile. “What?”

“I’d say jealousy doesn’t suit you, Jonah, but it seems to be your default state of being,” he drawls, and Jonah huffs a sigh at him. “You must know Mordechai loves darling Leksi as a brother, and not in some… way that you seem to fear.”

“I don’t fear anything regarding either of them,” Jonah says stiffly, and does not say that he _knows_ what Aleksei would expect from “being loved as a brother.” He refuses to watch the two of them stamp their way outside to find a spot for their accidental stowaway. Jonah glances over at Jonathan, who seems quite amused, still. “I somewhat did expect you to act as a voice of reason when the two of them need an outlet to… step away from the weightiness of our usual discussions.”

“Well, they’re not the only ones who need outlets to step away from constant research into the nature of terror,” Jonathan replies, a tad icily. “Our little misadventure today was one of my own devising, if you must know. We all needed something physical to occupy ourselves with, and it seemed the perfect opportunity to get out of our heads a bit and just… enjoy something, for once.”

“You enjoy lots of things, Jon,” Jonah protests, and Jonathan rolls his eyes at him.

“Quite. And yet, somehow, when I’m with you, most of those things end up leading us back into some fevered discussion or examination of terror,” Jonathan says. “You might note that I do not, in fact, particularly enjoy terror, conceptually. I come to these meetings and retreats to enjoy your company and that of our mutual friends and acquaintances, Jonah. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

“And rolling uncontrollably into a fetid pond is your idea of _enjoying our company,_ is it?” Jonah asks, and Jonathan gives him a slow smile. 

“Well, it does give me the opportunity to soak in your fine bathtub and swan about in one of your ridiculously comfortable robes, after,” he admits, and Jonah gives his arm a playful swat.

“Get yourself to it, then, before those troublemaking twins bully you into some other disgusting-smelling feat of daring,” Jonah recommends, and Jonathan tips him a little wink before leaving in pursuit of the bath.

**1961**

Nathaniel looks deeply harried - just tipping past middle age with his fiftieth birthday drawing near, he resembles his great-grandfather in his eyes and the line of his jaw and brow, but not much elsewhere. Where Mordechai had been burly and stoutly-built, Nathaniel seems to have taken a bit after his mother. She’d been something of a waif herself, shorter even than Jonah had been but without a lick of meat to her bones. Nathaniel’s younger brother looks more _like_ a Lukas, Jonah thinks, but he also tries to occasionally engage Jonah in friendly, non-funding-related conversation. Jonah thinks he might prefer Willard Lukas’s friendship over Nathaniel’s, but, well. He doesn’t come to the Lukas family for friendship, though he does enjoy these infrequent visits with Nathaniel. While Jonah hasn’t brought him fully into his confidence - Nathaniel knows him as Richard - they get along well, as much as any rival harbingers of the Fears may do so, largely because he tends not to bother overmuch with conversation beyond the barest of niceties and matters of importance.

Jonah gives him a bland smile. “You seem to not have been expecting me, Nathaniel. Is this a bad time?” And then, because Nathaniel looks a little _too_ hopeful at the thought of him leaving, “I could come back later. If necessary.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Nathaniel says, and then - glancing uncomfortably at the huge picture window for a moment - he adds, a bit shortly, “I wasn’t expecting a visit from my uncle in addition to your own visit, that’s all.”

“Which uncle?” Jonah asks, and Nathaniel gives his desk a pained wince. He does seem to have inherited Mordechai’s discomfort with eye contact, at least. “Not Cecil, surely?”

“No, Cecil’s been away,” Nathaniel says, before giving Jonah a hunted glance. He does not wish to be trapped in a conversation about his Uncle Cecil, Jonah can See. Cecil was something of a cad in his youth and an outright menace in his old age, at least to a man with Nathaniel’s shy disposition. “No. It’s - I think - he might be a third cousin, now that I think on it, but he’s old enough we’ve always called him Uncle.”

“I _am_ surprised to hear that you have a visitor. I didn’t miss an invitation to a funeral or something, did I?” Jonah pretends not to delight in Nathaniel’s discomfort, but he pretends badly enough for Nathaniel to see and feel mortified at the squirming feeling of being known. 

“No. Uncle Aleksei is here to _visit_ with Willard’s children,” he says glumly, and Jonah’s eyebrows shoot up the length of Richard’s forehead. “With any luck he’ll keep himself to the kids and Will, and won’t come up into the offices this time.”

“I don’t believe I’ve met Aleksei Lukas yet,” Jonah says, and Nathaniel shoots him a truly unhappy grimace before gesturing at the window behind his desk. 

“He’s not… like my brothers and father,” Nathaniel mutters. “Doesn’t… do well for long stretches here.”

“One of the extroverted Lukases, then,” Jonah suggests, and Nathaniel hunches slightly over his documents and notes. Jonah strides over to the picture window. Just as he suspects, Aleksei is striding through the gently rising mists off the huge, rambling green with one of Willard Lukas’s sons in tow. Jonah supposes he can see how someone would mistake Aleksei for a Lukas - tall, broad, with pale eyes and even something of a Lukas chin, though the “Lukas chin” really came from Ephraim’s first wife. Someone like Nathaniel, who looks somewhat less like the grand old paintings of Mordechai and his sons than Aleksei does, probably sees only the resemblances and none of the very obvious differences.

Jonah can’t decide if he’s delighted or annoyed. He thinks he will settle upon delight. It is very much the sort of ill-planned prank Aleksei and Mordechai would have pulled in their youths, before- 

-well. Before.

“Not attuned to the Forsaken, then, is he?” Jonah asks casually, and Nathaniel stiffens in his seat. Through the eyes of a small, framed portrait of some sternfaced Lukas that Jonah never bothered to meet, he sees that Nathaniel is tense, glancing at Jonah’s back. 

“No,” Nathaniel says cautiously, “but you can’t have him, Mr. Mendelson. He belongs to another.”

Jonah turns and gives Nathaniel a sharp-edged smile. He doesn’t wish to Know too deeply how it is that _he_ became the child-thief older generations of Lukases fear in Aleksei’s place, but it amuses him faintly. He can’t say he’s ever felt the inclination to steal a Lukas away for the Eye’s bidding, though the threat of it does seem to add a healthy flavor to the undercurrent of distrust Nathaniel feels whenever Jonah expresses any interest in his family.

Jonah turns back to the window, where Aleksei appears to be swinging Willard’s youngest son - not really a small child, he’s nearly twelve and seems to be a coltish, awkwardly-lanky thing - by the arms as Willard supervises. Aleksei looks… easy, with the pair of them. There’s a lighthearted bounce in his step as he allows young Peter to lead him to a stand of ornamental shrubs, where the boy appears to have spotted a small, wild animal.

“I thought your family didn’t tend towards… cultivating too many relationships,” Jonah says mildly, and Nathaniel clears his throat and recites something that Jonah now Knows to have been taught to him as a young man during one of Aleksei’s visits. He does not need to wonder how often it was that Aleksei had gently made a suggestion or pretended to quote Mordechai to him. Nathaniel does seem to be fond of him, in his painful and awkward way.

“There’s an amount of poetic license to our devotion to the Forsaken,” Nathaniel mutters. “We don’t reap its benefit fully, and we don’t feed ourselves fully into it, either. And there _is_ a loneliness to missing someone who is not or cannot be near you. It hasn’t affected our tether to our god, if that’s what you’re implying, and you’ll find that no Lukas will be tempted to your own.”

"Hm,” Jonah replies. He turns and goes back around the desk; Nathaniel looks briefly pleased to see him leave but then visibly resigns himself as Jonah sits back down in his favored chair, hands crossed. “Well, do continue.”

Nathaniel stacks a few more pages into a slim portfolio, tucking everything into a broad envelope for safekeeping. He glances at Jonah for a brief moment, then averts his eyes. “I suppose I’ll have to be seeing you at the end-of-year fundraiser. Unless you wish to invite Willard and Nora this time?”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Nathaniel, you’ve always been a wonderful sight to see at the holiday party,” Jonah says, and Nathaniel nods imperceptibly. Jonah stands and almost moves to go, but then he turns and makes his way to the window again.

Aleksei looks… good. He’s put on a few decades, his gold hair gone all silver-white, though it’s quite thick and unruly-looking, from up here. From this high up Jonah has to Behold him through Willard’s eyes to know the handsome smattering of wrinkles and smile-lines on his face, the merry twist to his mouth as he quirks his head to one side, gazing intently into his - into Willard’s eyes - before turning quickly and peering back up at the house. 

Jonah comes immediately back to himself, and Aleksei is gazing up at him. Jonah isn’t even sure if Aleksei can see who it is who’s watching him, but when Aleksei raises a hand in a shy wave Jonah turns abruptly to leave.

“You should introduce me to your uncle sometime,” Jonah says, before stepping out through the office’s door. “I don’t think we’ve formally met yet, you see.”

“He might consent to being a plus-one,” Nathaniel says, and even has the poor grace to look pleased about the idea. “I’ll certainly consider it.”

Jonah doesn’t respond, which he’s sure Nathaniel appreciates. He’s in a fine temper by the time his chauffeur has him back in London, and the Eye is no help in deciphering why.

**1814**

It’s late, and Aleksei is drunkenly and persistently trying to teach Mordechai how to shuffle a deck of cards while they joke on the floor at Jonah’s feet.

It would be easier going, for him, if he could stop himself from dropping half the deck every other time he tries to do it himself. Jonah gently nudges the small of Aleksei’s back with his stockinged foot, and Aleksei sits up a little, dropping the rest of the cards. 

“Oh no,” Mordechai says plaintively, causing a fit of giggles in Aleksei as he paws at the scattered cards. 

“You’re too drunk for that, aren’t you?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei bends to plant a sloppy kiss on the bone of his ankle. “You ought to get into bed.”

“Oh, alright, I will,” Aleksei agrees, then points exaggeratedly at Mordechai. “Wait! Wait. First. The Spiral.”

“Mm,” Mordechai strokes at the patchy beginnings of a beard, before brightening up a bit. “I’d straighten it.”

“Nicely done,” Aleksei says, arching his back and leaning against Jonah’s knees.

“Your turn, then. The Flesh.”

“Oh, easy,” Aleksei says, grinning. “Pan-seared with a bit of rosemary and thyme, paired with roasted brussels sprouts and a white wine.”

“That was _tonight’s_ meal,” Mordechai protests, and Aleksei sits up to shoot the most devilish look his way.

“I told you I’d had a hand in making it, I didn’t tell you what it of - what it was - the meat made of,” he stammers, and Mordechai guffaws quietly into his hands. “Oh, oh, here’s one. The Watching.”

“Well,” Mordechai says, in what could only in kindness be described as a stage whisper, “could just pick him up over one shoulder, couldn’t I?” The two of them dissolve into giggles at that.

“Rude, to discuss your host right in _front_ of him,” Jonah says archly, spurring on another round of giggling from the sloppy pair of degenerates. He reaches over, scratching lightly at Aleksei’s scalp, which immediately quiets him. “You both will be utterly useless in the morning, I hope you realize.”

“I don’t think either of us intends to be… awake in the morning,” Mordechai says slowly, and snickers. He opens his mouth to say more, then stops, looking up at Jonah - no, looking over Jonah’s shoulder.

Barnabas clears his throat. 

“I don’t suppose any of you chaps realize the time,” he says, and Aleksei cranes his neck awkwardly to look up at him. “No other way to say it, lads, but your noise is keeping me awake, and I’ve got a business matter to attend to in the morning.”

Jonah gives him a small frown. “We’ll settle in, then. I’m sure none of us meant to disturb you, darling.”

“Well, _you_ didn’t disturb me,” Barnabas says, and leans over to brush a small kiss against the crown of Jonah’s mass of curls. “Goodnight, boys. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay, Mordechai.”

“Of course,” Mordechai says, eyes on the mess of cards on the floor. Aleksei pulls away from Jonah, clumsily scooping the cards up into his hands, muttering something about earning his keep. Jonah isn’t entirely sure that he’s joking. 

Aleksei and Mordechai help each other up, and Aleksei offers Jonah a hand as well. Jonah waves it away.

“I’m in no hurry to get to bed,” he tells them, and picks up a book and the rest of their most recently opened wine. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

“Goodnight, Jonah,” Mordechai says, and Jonah nods, tucking his book under his arm. He pretends not to hear Aleseki quietly offer Mordechai to stay in his room.

Jonah is halfway through the first page of his reading before he realizes that he’s incorrect. Aleksei hadn’t offered for Mordechai to sleep in his room - he’d offered Mordechai to sleep in _the room they let him stay in_. 

It feels like an important distinction, but Jonah is too weary to discern why. He empties the rest of the wine and reads until his eyes blur and his hands shake.

**2006**

Jonah Sees Aleksei come in through the carved stone eyes of the owl over the doorway, and through the eyes of Mathilde at the reception desk. He looks exhausted - there are bruiselike smudges under his eyes, his long hair is braided loosely at the nape of his neck, and he’s carrying a small rolling luggage. He looks like he’s just come from the airport; after a second the Eye informs Jonah that’s exactly what he’s done.

Jonah Sees him paste a wan, shortlived smile on his face as he asks the way to the Head Archivist’s offices. He Watches Aleksei explain that he already knows the way, but it’s been ten years and he likes to be sure. Mathilde nods and says something that Aleksei doesn’t wait to listen to. He’s already in the elevator down to Gertrude’s office by the time Jonah jumps to his feet in his upstairs office. 

Jonah takes the stairs; there’s no one left to distract Aleksei before he gets to Gertrude’s desk, now, and he resorts to throwing the full Gaze of the Crown down the back of Aleksei’s neck to stop him after he exits the elevator. Jonah Sees Aleksei freeze midstep, his free hand clenching into a fist.

By the time Jonah gets to him they’re both panting and sweating - Jonah from taking four flights of stairs in a hurry, Aleksei from the effort of trying to dislodge his Eye. 

“Stop looking at me,” Aleksei growls, eyes screwed shut. 

“No,” Jonah says, and Aleksei’s lips press into a thin line. “Where are you going?”

“Giving a statement,” he replies, and then he looks at Jonah, brows furrowed. “You look like hell. More than you usually do. Did you _run_ here or something?”

“I did run here,” Jonah says, crossing his arms over his chest. He gets lightheaded very easily, in this body, and his hands and feet are beginning to swell. He clears his throat. “I would have thought you’d like the way I look, Leksi.”

“I liked _Elias_ ,” Aleksei tells him, his body tense - some magnificent predator, something the true hunters would love to kill and skin, something at the top of a strange and delicate food chain. He turns his face away. “Let me go. I have something for your Archives.”

“Tell me,” Jonah says, and Aleksei bares his teeth at him. 

“You let go of me,” he says, very quietly. “You will not like what happens if you don’t.”

“You can tell me, I’ll write it down for you and give it to her,” Jonah tries, but he releases the Gaze and Aleksei strides forward and opens the door to Gertrude’s office. “Wait-”

Gertrude looks up from her desk as Aleksei strides in, his luggage protesting squeakily as he drags it behind him.

“Welcome back,” she says mildly, as if it hasn’t been ten years since he’d been here. “You’re looking rather more youthful than you had the last time we spoke. How may I help you, Mr. Oedekoven? Or do you prefer Fairchild again?”

“Either suits, Ms. Robinson,” Aleksei says, pulling a chair out for himself. “I won’t be long, though I’m sure you and your staff have quite missed the sight of me stomping around with your coffees.”

“I suppose I must admit that I don’t, now that there’s a Starbucks in walking distance of here,” Gertrude says, and the expression on Aleksei’s face tightens. Jonah Knows, immediately, why he’s here. Gertrude gestures at Jonah. “Mr. Bouchard, I’m sure you have important work to be getting to while I take your… friend’s statement.”

“I’m sure he does,” Aleksei says, shooting Jonah a glare. 

“I see no reason why I couldn’t review the process,” Jonah says. “We might need to restructure the taking of original statements by our Archivist, after all.”

Aleksei and Gertrude share a glance that would, in a normal situation, be almost next-door to fond annoyance. Then the both of them school their expressions; neutral, flat, shuttered. 

“It’s not like he doesn’t know, anyway,” Aleksei says, leaning back in his chair.

“Very well,” Gertrude says, taking one of her tape recorders out of her desk, checking to see if it’s got a blank tape before setting it down on the surface between them. Jonah closes the door behind him, but neither of them seem to notice. Gertrude folds her hands on her desk.

“Aleksei Oedekoven recording, regarding… his experiences these past two weeks with a strange door. Recording date seventeenth of August, 2006.” She gestures at him, and he gives her a tiny smile as he begins.

“Bit of an oversimplification, isn’t it? But I suppose that’s all you might have found without Looking harder,” he starts. He does not look in Jonah’s direction. “I suppose I could start… not quite at the beginning, but early enough to have context? I’m sure you have no objections to _more_ information, though.”

Aleksei fidgets a bit with the sleeve of his light jacket. 

“I enjoyed visiting you here, before. Does that surprise you? You seemed like an interesting person, but I must confess that I didn’t come ‘round just to gossip and bring you coffee all those years. I mean, I did, yes. But I mostly enjoyed being with people, having company during a day, however briefly. I like to think I got on well with Eric, when he was still working here, and Michael and Elias, and somewhat… less well with Emma. I don’t know that she ever said more than a handful of words to me at one go. And I enjoyed coming to visit James.”

His fingers twitch; he desperately wants to drop quotations around the name. 

“And I stopped coming after… after James died, and was replaced by Elias. It hurt. I learned a few things at the time that… threw what I’d previously thought and assumed out the window. It hurt too badly to be here. To know that I’d loved somebody too much to accept something awful about them, that I’d happily lied to myself about who they truly were. We all changed, I suppose. Time does that.”

Jonah tenses as Aleksei’s eyes finally glide over to him, still full of the disgust and remorse he’d shown ten years ago, after Jonah first became Elias. 

“I couldn’t come here without feeling sick. But I could still keep in touch with the friends I’d made here, even if it was… infrequent. I travel more, now, so it’s been harder for people to reach me. I suppose that had been my intention all along.” Aleksei looks at Gertrude, licking his chapped and too-bitten lower lip.

“I came home to my flat - well! The flat I keep in the Italian Alps. I like having places to go home to, whenever I can arrange it, but that’s the one I spend the most time in. It’s a big world, isn’t it? So many places to get lost in, and it’s hard to know what being lost amongst a huge place feels like if you can’t compare it to something cozy and safe. I’d been stormchasing in America. Kansas, specifically. I made a proper adventure of it, I watched _The Wizard of Oz_ and _Twister_ to get myself in the mood. There’s nothing that makes you feel smaller than seeing one of the bigger storms spinning on its axis, lifting trees and buildings and vehicles as if they were nothing. I had a good time, in case you’re wondering. And stormchasers are a delight to be around, for someone like me. They film everything, too, and spread that feeling of… of awe, of smallness, to people who’d never otherwise have felt it. I did very well for myself in Kansas, actually. And I let myself have a little fun. The storms make strange noises and mete out senseless cruelty and mercy alike.”

“The stormchasers are… well, they’re scientists, but they know not to question the presence of a small miracle. So I created a few small miracles, just to keep things nice and light. No one died in the storms I attended. None of their equipment was destroyed - though hail did, at one point, shatter a car window, but that can hardly be my fault. Can’t be everywhere at once, can I?”

Aleksei drums his fingertips on his knee. “We were looking over a collapsed house. We passed by it as a group, even filmed a bit. There was no door in the wall, not even a window. And when we passed back again, there was a door there.”

His eyes are briefly flinty. “I didn’t know what the door meant, of course. But I had an idea of what would happen to anyone who opened it. And… and none of the others in our group saw it, or noticed it. I suppose I knew right away the door was for me, but that’s not exactly a comforting thought, not in _this_ line of work.” 

His hand gently swirls in the air, gesturing between himself and Gertrude and Jonah. Gertrude raises an eyebrow but seems otherwise unmoved.

“The door,” he says, “was yellow. It… turned in on itself, and it almost hurt to look at sometimes. I thought first to ignore it. I went back to the motel room I’d been staying in, and the door… followed me. I almost didn’t notice, but the door between my room and the room that adjoined it had been replaced by the one from the fallen house. I packed my things quickly, keeping one eye - hah! - on the door as I did. It was for me. It would follow me home. I knew it wanted me to open it, or at least knock, and I figured I’d rather deal with the outcome somewhere comfortable.”

Aleksei’s hand drops. “The door was familiar to me. In the same way a friend or sibling’s face in silhouette is familiar, even at a distance. The door was familiar to me. So I went home a few days early, and it was waiting for me in my flat. I…” He trails off, swallowing tightly. 

“I left it alone at first. I had nearly four months of mail to go through, but I found a letter from a friend in the pile. Reading is still difficult for me, even when I remember to put on those glasses - they do help a bit, and I’ve had a lot of time to practice and relearn, you know, they didn’t even _have_ a word for what my difficulty was, when I was younger? But this letter, you see, came from my dear friend - our mutual acquaintance, Michael Shelley. I notice he’s not in the office today. I suppose I can’t be surprised about it.

He wrote me asking how I’ve been, we hadn’t corresponded much since I saw him at Christmas, he wanted to know if I was having fun on my America trip, he wanted to know if I’d seen any good movies lately. And then he wrote a bit, saying that he’d be going on a trip himself, soon. That if I got home before he did he’d be quite surprised, but that he was very excited. He was looking forward to traveling with you, Gertrude, did you know? Michael only ever has nice things to say about you.”

Aleksei is very, very still for a moment, before asking, “Do you want to know if I opened the door, Gertrude? Or would you like to tell me first where Michael Shelley is now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that,” Gertrude says neutrally. 

“No, you’re not,” Aleksei says. “Afraid, I mean. Which is odd. You probably _should_ be.”

“Aleksei, come upstairs,” Jonah says, and Aleksei shoots him a glare.

“I won’t, thanks,” he says curtly, before turning back to Gertrude. “Alright, Archivist. Perhaps, hypothetically, I opened the door. Perhaps something came out of it, stumbling and weeping and tearing at its hands and face. Perhaps I knew its face and eyes, even though it barely recognized me, and I tried to help, I tried to provide stable footing, an anchor, a tether, anything to help, anything and everything I could think of. We went for long, quiet walks through my forested mountainside. I tried to help. We’d been friends for so long, I didn’t think it was possible that I couldn’t fix it.”

Aleksei puts his face in his hands, for a few moments. The tape rolls and crackles faintly in the quiet.

“The door went away. It said I was… confusing. Making things worse. It said it couldn’t be who I believed it to be. It said it hurt to be held, because it thought I couldn’t have possibly wanted to hold anything but the thing I’d imagined it to be. What a silly thought to have. What a stupidly _human_ insecurity to have. It’s so sure it isn’t and never was human, but I suppose that’s the gig, right? It couldn’t lie to me, but it could lie to itself. The door went away, and I thought… I thought it might have come back home, so I came here. I suppose it doesn’t think of this place as home anymore, though.”

The tension in the air eases.

“Statement ends,” Gertrude says into her recorder, and doesn’t bother to turn it off.

“I could have helped you,” Aleksei says, in a small voice. “I could have destroyed the entire island. You didn’t need to have brought Michael into it. You didn’t need to _do_ anything, you could have just told me what you were planning and I could have taken care of it.”

“I didn’t know that you could, and it might have destroyed you to do so,” Gertrude says mildly, and Aleksei looks up at her, eyes glimmering with tears. “And I certainly didn’t have your contact information these last ten years. You only gave it to Michael and Emma.”

“Like you couldn’t have contacted me any time you liked,” Aleksei says flatly.

“Perhaps. I had no reason to trust you, though,” Gertrude says, her voice coolly even. Jonah steps forward, because there’s no reason for this to go on much further now that the statement’s been given.

“And what good would trust have been?” Aleksei snaps, surging to his feet. “Michael trusted _you_.”

“Aleksei,” Jonah says quietly. “That’s enough of that. Come upstairs, to my office. Gertrude, I’ll be sure to send along my notes on your archival procedures. Good day.”

Aleksei is reluctant to obey, but Jonah is firm, and pulls him into the elevator. He leans into the corner, closing his eyes, and Jonah watches him for a moment or two before speaking.

“She could kill you, you know,” Jonah says. “She has a talent for it. Wiping monsters out of the world. You didn’t even bother pretending not to be what you are this time. She-”

“She can if she wants to,” Aleksei says hollowly. 

“Don’t say that,” Jonah says sharply, and Aleksei shrugs. “You’re being ridiculous, Leksi. Michael Shelley hasn’t ceased to be any more than you or I have.”

“You don’t Know that,” Aleksei mutters. Jonah reaches over and takes his sleeve, just as the door opens. One of the Library staff steps in - ah. Martin “K” Blackwood. Barely nineteen, worked here less than a year, still torn between thinking people truly believe that he’s nearly ten years older than he really is, and being convinced that everyone has discovered the truth about him. Jonah moves to allow him to carry his armful of files into the elevator. The presence of a light snack does settle Jonah’s nerve a bit, and he smiles.

“Going up, Mr. Blackwood?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei rolls his eyes at him. Martin clears his throat.

“Just one level, sir,” he says, and Jonah punches the button for his floor. “Thank you, Mr. Bouchard.”

“Of course,” he replies. “Say, is that a new cardigan? It’s a bit too warm outside for it, don’t you think?”

“What?” Martin asks, then glances down at himself. “Um. No, sir, it’s been a while since I was in climate-controlled storage, sir, so I brought it in so I wouldn’t get cold filing. Is - it isn’t out of dress code, is it-?”

“Of course not, Mr. Blackwood, you look fine,” Aleksei cuts in. “Don’t pester your employee, Elias.”

“You aren’t familiar with our employee code of conduct manual, and I’m not _pestering_ ,” Jonah objects. “And it’s not _too_ badly out of compliance, Mr. Blackwood, and the circumstances are very understandable. I was just thinking, it’s a nice cardigan. Makes you look a bit younger than you are, though!”

The elevator door dings and opens, and Martin skitters out with a muttered thanks and the thought of trying to determine what a more “mature” looking cardigan would look like clamoring and jangling in his head. 

Jonah turns, and Aleksei is utterly unamused.

“That boy seems nice,” Aleksei says flatly. “You don’t need to stoke his paranoia, do you?”

“Perk of the job, Leksi,” Jonah tells him. “You don’t need to threaten my Archivist, either.”

“A bit like you, isn’t she?” he replies, and Jonah shrugs.

“Well, yes. I chose her for a reason.”

Aleksei sighs noisily at him, and the elevator stops on the top floor. Aleksei jams his free hand into his pocket, following Jonah into his office.

“Can I get you anything?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei shakes his head. “Alright. Where will you be staying while you’re here?”

“I don’t know. You’ve made it all awkward with Peter, even if he’s home he’ll probably not want to see me-”

“He isn’t home, he’s on the Tundra now,” Jonah volunteers.

“-and I think Simon’s been keeping my room at his place set the way I had it, but I don’t know that I have the energy for Simon,” Aleksei sighs. “I don’t know. It isn’t really any of your business, is it?”

“There’s no need for you to be like that,” Jonah tells him, and Aleksei scoffs. “I was going to offer you the chance to stay in my guest room until you’re ready to put up with Simon and his, ah, _energy._ That’s certainly a sweet way to word it, by the way.”

Aleksei makes a faint, noncommittal sound, wandering over to the bookshelves in Jonah’s office. Jonah follows him, and after a few minutes of this Aleksei huffs out an annoyed sigh.

“Guest room?” he confirms.

“Yes, the upstairs one you used to stay in. The en suite’s been renovated.”

“I’m not going to touch you,” Aleksei warns. “If you’re just asking me over because you’re _bored_ while Peter’s away, I’ll find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jonah lies, and Aleksei gives him a dark glare over one shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay, Leksi. Or not. It’s fully your own choice. I just think you should take a night to relax a bit. Perhaps even enjoy yourself.”

Aleksei pauses, massaging the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand. You probably _can’t_ understand, Jonah. The rest of us don’t experience other people as tools to be discarded and forgotten when they become inconvenient. I can’t enjoy myself while I’m grieving a friend. You don’t even know what grief is, alright?”

“I know what grief is. Or have you forgotten?” Jonah asks quietly, and Aleksei has the grace to look ashamed. His broad shoulders droop.

“Sorry. I didn’t come here to harangue you,” he mutters. “I just, I’ll, I’ll go.”

“Stay the night,” Jonah tells him, knowing that he can spin it out into at least a week. “Stay, Leksi.”

Aleksei closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose.

“Fine,” he says dully.


	3. 1816

**1816**

They don’t talk about what happened four months ago. Jonah doesn’t allow him to sleep alone anymore; when Barnabas is home they sleep on either side of him, though Barnabas is growing tired and restless of the situation. 

Aleksei still has trouble with walking, with sitting upright, with using his hands. He eats less. He squirms more. He forgets how to talk; sometimes it leaves him midsentence, and he tears in frustration at his hair, at his clothes. He treats Jonah and Barnabas with an overdelicate caution, when he remembers their names. 

He doesn’t remember their names tonight. 

Jonathan has tried everything. Jonathan has gently suggested that they start to consider hiring a live-in nurse. He has explained to them both that it’s a miracle Aleksei is still alive, after the terrible head injury he took last autumn. He has explained to them both that the Aleksei they knew might be gone forever, that they have to accept that he might never again be the person they’ve known the past four years. Jonathan is gentle but brief with Aleksei, when he speaks to him. He looks worn and old - older than the thirty that he is - when he leaves. He doesn’t believe Jonah when he insists that he still sees their dear Aleksei in himself on the days when he remembers their names.

But Aleksei doesn’t remember their names tonight, and Jonah finds him staring contemplatively at the window of his bedroom. 

His potted plants have all died. The smell of herbs has faded into a greenish rot. It’s no longer Aleksei’s room; it’s just a place where they store the things that belonged to him.

Aleksei’s clothes and tangle of hair are damp with sweat despite the winter chill. He sways in place, gazing out at the window.

“Aleksei, why don’t we get dressed for bed?” Jonah asks. Aleksei tilts his head, turning slowly in place to face him. There is a wild curiosity in his expression, and something else, running beneath it, but there’s no recognition there. He looks distressingly thin. Jonah reaches his hand out. “Come with me, Leksi.”

Aleksei says something in German, his words slurring. He starts to turn back to the window, and Jonah grasps onto his elbow. 

“Come with me,” Jonah insists. Aleksei tugs away, turning back to the window. He repeats himself - German again - and puts both hands flat against the pane. Jonah bites his lip, then tries asking a question - in the French that Aleksei taught him, which he hasn’t practiced much since Aleksei was  _ hurt _ in October. “ _ Come with me. _ ”

Aleksei makes a soft noise of surprise, but does not turn away from the window. After a moment, he presses his forehead against the glass.

“There’s a man outside,” Aleksei mumbles in French. “I’m hungry. There’s a man outside.”

“You’re hungry because you didn’t eat any of the duck at dinner,” Jonah replies, and Aleksei huffs a weak, airless little laugh. “Come with me, we’re going to bed now.”

“I’m hungry,” Aleksei whines, and Jonah sighs at him. “Where’s Mother? She always comes to me when I’m hungry and she won’t come now.”

“Your mother died in childbed, Aleksei, you never met her,” Jonah says, more sharpish than he intends to be. Aleksei chuckles softly, like the sound of a gentle stream in a dark and rocky place.

“They told me Mother died having me, but they also told me it was the guillotine for her,” Aleksei mumbles against the glass. “And she was always there when I was hungry. I’m  _ so  _ hungry.”

“Then we’ll eat together,” Jonah says, and Aleksei hums a little. “Come, there must be something you want to eat.”

“I want to eat that man,” Aleksei says, very slowly. “There’s a man outside. He looks very small from here.”

“Aleksei, what are you talking about?” Jonah asks, coming close. He stops when Aleksei turns his head to face him, his eyes the brilliant silver of the snowfall outside. “Leksi-”

“The man is very small,” Aleksei croons. “It’s such a long way from here to where he is. Why is he coming here? I don’t think he knows where he is. I don’t think he sees us, or this place, he’s so far away and everything is bigger when you’re small. It’s just him outside. The sky is so open and the sky wants him, the field is so open and it can’t keep him. I’m hungry. I want to take him to the sky with me.”

Jonah tears his face away to look. There is, indeed, a small dark figure at the edge of the lawn, walking resolutely towards the house. They’re not far enough from the edge of the lawn for a man to look so distant and tiny, but from here he looks like an ant or a spider. Jonah watches the man walk a few more paces, then stop abruptly, turning around. 

Jonah knows his silhouette. He knows his gait. It still takes precious seconds for him to realize this, and even more for him to think to say anything, and by the time he realizes that it’s Barnabas down there the tiny little figure has collapsed to its knees. Jonah wonders, with a thrill of terror, if that’s what Luca did to Aleksei. He wonders if Luca ate Aleksei, and if Barnabas will meet the same fate. He finds he cannot bear the thought of being the only one among the three of them who hasn’t been devoured by the Vast.

“Oh, oh no,” Aleksei whispers to the glass. “Don’t close your eyes, look up again, look how grand the sky is, look how open-”

“Aleksei, it’s Barnabas,” Jonah says, shaking his shoulder. “Aleksei, that’s Barnabas. Don’t speak of eating him, don’t even think of it, that’s our Barnabas-”

“It’s… Barnabas?” Aleksei asks slowly, and he blinks. All at once the distance between Barnabas and the house returns to its normal size; from here Jonah can see the expression on his face as he curls up and vomits into the snow. 

Aleksei steps back from the window, looking down at his hands with a vague sort of concern. He says something in German; it sounds like a question. His eyes are the same faded, pale blue they’ve always been, and his hands are shaking. 

“I’m leaving to attend to poor Barnabas,” Jonah says in English, watching to see if Aleksei understands. “You… you stay here. Don’t move, don’t leave.”

“Stay here,” Aleksei echoes faintly. Jonah pulls him away from the window, shoving him unceremoniously onto his bed. 

“Don’t move until I tell you to,” Jonah says, and Aleksei nods once, closing his eyes. Jonah has to hope that he won’t get back up; he flees downstairs and outside, and finds Barnabas half-swooned and cradling his face in his hand. He asks Barnabas if he’s alright, and Barnabas tells him that he must have caught a funny spell, that for a moment or two he couldn’t tell where he was or where the house was. 

It is some hours before Jonah is able to pull himself away from Barnabas, but Aleksei is sleeping fitfully when he goes upstairs into his room. He supposes it’s for the best.

**1822**

Jonah gets so much work done, these days. He’s told Mordechai as much in one of their letter exchanges; without the daily and oft-constant stream of his energy being poured into caring for the physical or emotional needs of a companion, he finds that he is able to work at twice his old pace, or more. He’s even happier; the distance has given a sweetness and a longing to his meetings with Barnabas now, despite the fact that those meetings, too, are grown less and less. They’re neither of them the men they were when they met at seventeen; it would have been torture for both of them to stay, the way it got the be torture in that last year before they both came to their senses and agreed to keep separate households. 

He’s almost done for the day when he gets a little… flash of intuition, perhaps. They come to him sometimes, especially here, when he’s been working towards translating, categorizing, and summarizing the little stories people send to his Institute. 

Jonah looks up at the door to his office, thinking deeply on it for a moment, before carefully marking and putting away his notes. He takes out a paper and a pen, arranging them just so on his desk, preparing himself for the arrival of this new statement-giver. 

There is a knock on his door. 

“Come in, please,” he calls; he has had nearly four years to get used to this, but a part of him still wants to wriggle with excitement at the thought of a new person, with all new experiences, coming to  _ him _ to give him a new statement. A tall, bearded man steps inside; for a split second Jonah thinks it is Mordechai, but dismisses the thought immediately. Mordechai is at his home, and this man is older than Mordechai by a few years at least - though, Jonah thinks to himself, still a man in his thirties and in the full prime of his life.

The man smiles sharply at him, taking a seat in the chair across the desk.

“Good evening,” he says, with a heavy German accent. Jonah looks up at him, and recognizes him nigh-immediately, though they’ve never met in person before. The man reaches out, and Jonah takes his hand unthinkingly, allowing his fingers to be briefly and fiercely crushed before the farce of a handshake ends. “My name is Gunnar Oedekoven. I believe we have an acquaintance in common; Albrecht von Closen, of Schramberg. Is that not so?”

“It… it is so, yes. My name is Jonah Magnus, though I’m sure you are aware,” Jonah says, massaging feeling back into his hand. “And what business of yours is it, that brings you all the way to my little corner of Scotland, Herr Oedekoven?”

“I’ve been told this is the place to come if I have a story of a certain sort,” the man says. He does, in many ways, look like what Jonah recalls of Aleksei the last time they spoke. “And it’s a story that leads to questions. I thought, why, if anyone knows how best to investigate this, it would be the Institute that is built for such things.”

“I suppose we’ll have to see,” Jonah says, quickly writing the date at the top of his page. “It is typical for statements to be written, for research. Would you prefer to write it out, or-”

“No, no. Oh, no. You write, I’ll simply do the telling,” Gunnar says, smiling faintly. 

“Very well,” Jonah says, preparing to field questions about Aleksei that he simply doesn’t know the answer to. Gunnar eyes him, looking… happy, which puts Jonah a bit more on edge. “Statement of Gunnar Oedekoven, regarding…?”

“Regarding… a haunted house, I think,” Gunnar says, folding his hands on the top of his knee. 

“You may begin at any time,” Jonah tells him, and he nods, staring down at his hands for a moment or two before he speaks.

“The first thing you should know,” he begins, “is that my mother was magnificent and that my father was a coward. The first eight years of my life, we lived in a beautiful manor just outside Paris. Our family was well-off and well-connected, though I doubt you would have heard of us out here in the… highlands. My older brothers were well on their ways to following in our parents’ footsteps, but I… I was Mother’s favored son.”

He tilts his head a little. 

“It is a strange thing, to be your favorite parent’s favorite, knowing that your siblings know, knowing that they despise your father as much as you and yet cannot have what it is your mother gives. My brothers tried, I’m sure. They tried to be what both of our parents wanted, in their own ways. They tried very hard, Mr. Magnus. Do you know what it’s like? To seek the answer, the step, the one accomplishment or accolade that will make the right person love you the right amount? Perhaps you do. My brothers hunted after that all through my childhood, and my mother let them.”

“I love my mother very much,” he continues, after a brief moment to collect his thoughts. She died… nearly twenty-seven years ago, you know. She taught me many things. My father, too, though I spare little love for the man. He was a brute, but worse than that, he loved my younger sister more than any of us. He taught all of us to track and shoot game; not Odessa, because she was too tender, but the rest of us had to spend long days and nights with him in the forests, seeking prey, hunting for our next meal. We had the money to hire the finest butcher, but he still insisted on teaching all of us how to take a rabbit or a deer apart. Well. Not Odessa.”

“Father always said Mother died having Odessa,” Gunnar says quietly. “We still lived outside Paris, then. Mother died to bring us Odessa, and it wasn’t Odessa’s fault that she died. Odessa was Father’s favorite, and I wonder… if Odessa might have been Mother’s favorite, as well. She died in childbirth, I’m nearly sure, except that I remember why we’d had to travel out of France to my father’s childhood home. A mob had come for Mother, you see. They said she had committed crimes against the very sanctity of man. I saw her stand, all red down the insides of her legs, coating the thin dress she’d been wearing with it. I saw her step outside. I saw them drag Mother to the guillotine. Father wouldn’t let me see any more; he had me carry Odessa, slick and screaming, in my arms as we left through the back of the house.”

His eyes roam the room. Jonah waits for him to continue.

“Father taught all of his sons how to hunt game,” he repeats softly, before adding, “and Mother only taught me how to hunt… other things. She was very beautiful. I saw her in my sister, quite a bit. I could never decide if she would have wanted Odessa to learn what it was she taught me, but I think she did. I tried, a bit. It was different, in our new home. Mother had taught me how to hunt on the streets of Paris. She taught me how to find people who wouldn’t be missed for some time, and how to noiselessly take them in a city where there was always someone who might hear and remember. It was… hard to teach Odessa those things, in the forest.”

“Have you ever killed anything, Mr. Magnus?”

“I’ve been hunting,” Jonah says, and does not think of William Bennett, gone these last fifteen years. Gunnar shoots him a slow, knowing smile.

“I’m sure you have. Poor, tender Odessa could never get to it. We all tried to knock a bit of that tenderness out of her, in our own ways. Father was so soft on her, and my brothers and I knew she’d never learn if it were up to him. She was closest to me, though, so nearly all of her instruction fell into my lap.”

His eyes are bright. Jonah finishes the line, and remembers a decade ago, Aleksei softly choking on his own sobs as Jonah held him,  _ he’s going to tell my brothers i’m here _ and  _ they’ll make me go back. _

“He was always getting in my way,” Gunnar muses. “So when I was a man of twenty, he… well, simply put, he had to... go away. Odessa was twelve when he died and it took her… badly, especially after she found out how it was that Father died. She took to hiding from me more often. She’d done so as a child before, but it began to be the only game we ever played. Sometimes… sometimes Mother would help her hide. And sometimes Mother helped me find her.”

Gunnar lets out a soft, almost longing sigh.

“I didn’t see Mother at all for nearly six years, after the night Odessa was born, but one evening - I would have been thirteen years of age, I think - I came to Odessa’s bedroom and I heard her speaking. This was unusual. Odessa only spoke to me and to our Father, and I’d just passed Father on the stairs. Odessa had been sent to bed without supper, over some sort of transgression - impertinence, I think, though it hardly matters now - and I’d brought a bit of bread and candied fruit in my pocket for her, if she promised to be sweet. I opened the door to see who was there with her, and Mother looked at me, a pale hand running through Odessa’s hair, pulling it out of its braids and letting it fall loose around her shoulders.”

Jonah wonders what such a childhood would have been like, speaking only to a terror of a brother and a distant, aging father. For a moment he thinks he sees a glimpse - echoing rooms and halls, a very small Aleksei left to his own devices for far too long, the jump of terror at being found - and he swallows, his throat close and stifling. He has a difficult time thinking of Aleksei as being tiny and helpless. He doesn’t like it.

“Mother gave Odessa’s brow a small kiss.  _ Look,  _ she whispered.  _ It’s your brother. You’ll be very sweet for your dear brother, won’t you? _ I shut the door behind me, and Mother smiled faintly, and said,  _ Look at what a good child I’ve left you, my darling. _ I reached for Mother and… and she was gone. Odessa looked up at me, and I…” Gunnar trails off, shaking his head. “I do not know if there is a correct word in English, but I will try, for you. When my sister looked at me, I saw her as my mother must have seen me once. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was mine to have and protect and teach and shape into the finest and best person she could be. I knew immediately that she was to be like me. Like Mother.”

“Mother taught me how to Hunt,” Gunnar says, sighing. “And I tried. I know now that I failed. When Odessa was smaller, Mother didn’t have to step in very often. I could always outfox Odessa as a child, and she could squirm her way into small spaces and into hidden nooks beyond my reach. It was a game at first. Teach her how to be prey, so she could know how prey thinks. But she refused to stop being prey. She refused to take what she learned in evading me and seek out other, smaller things. The punishment for being caught became worse - how else was I to educate her in our ways? She was far too soft. Perhaps it was my fault, after all. I enjoyed how soft Odessa was.”

Jonah stiffens, eyes darting to Gunnar’s face. He stares dreamily at the window, and does not look at Jonah. 

“But sometimes Mother hid my Odessa from me. It was her way of sharpening me, when I’d got too complacent. And sometimes she led me to Odessa’s hiding spots. A reward for both of us, really. Mother wanted so badly for Odessa to be like her. To be like me. I suppose… in a way, perhaps she did get what she wanted, in the end? Difficult for me to say.”

He sighs, a touch despondently. It is startlingly like the sound of Aleksei sighing. 

“Odessa was barely sixteen when last I saw her. A little more than ten years ago, now. We were playing the game again, you see. There wasn’t much else to do with regards to her education - I love my sister dearly, but she could never grasp the intricacies of the written word, and could barely make her way through writing her own name down - and the game was what she was best at.” Gunnar’s smile tightens. “Only this time I realized, too late, that she hadn’t hidden herself within the grounds of our estate. She’d stolen some of our father’s old clothes and cut her hair. I found a great pile of it, just inside her room. I still keep a lock of it,” he murmurs, gently touching a pocket at his breast. 

“Can you imagine? My dear, stupid, lovely little sister, pretending to be a boy out in the wilds of the Black Forest? I didn’t know that she was truly gone until I came to the great gates and saw Mother there, clutching at the ironworks and gazing fervently down the road after her. Mother said only one thing to me, ever again:  _ Bring me my child. _ ”

“I never saw her again. I searched for Odessa all ‘round the country, and… well, I worried that perhaps she’d died. I worried that Mother’s spirit would never again have the strength to appear to me, without Odessa where she belongs.” Gunnar’s eyes slide over to Jonah’s face, and he smiles, and there is a sharpness in the edges of his teeth. “But then I had a fortuitous meeting with our mutual acquaintance, Albrecht. Do you know what our dear friend told me, Mr. Magnus?”

“I couldn’t imagine,” Jonah says coolly, and Gunnar huffs a gentle laugh.

“Couldn’t you? Very well,” he says. “I was told - nearly two years ago, this was - that Albrecht had had  _ such  _ a delightful time knowing my younger brother. That Aleksei was a credit to our father’s name, and that he bore such a keen resemblance to myself that it was entirely charming. He told me it was an utter shame that Aleksei was off on some voyage to the Americas, that he’d quite missed his presence at your little… gatherings.”

Jonah lowers the pen, giving Gunnar an even stare. “And yet you’ve come here, even though Aleksei Oedekoven hasn’t been in my presence the past four years now. Why is that, Herr Oedekoven?”

“I’m seeking this… Aleksei,” Gunnar says brightly. “Perhaps… he is even  _ my _ Aleksei. I don’t suppose I have to tell  _ you _ that I’m not about to go haring off to Canada at the rumor of some boy with my name having gone there. I wish to know.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Jonah says. “I never knew anyone by the name of Odessa Oedekoven. If Aleksei was related to you specifically, he never said so. I myself came to the conclusion that Oedekoven was merely an assumed name and he had the dubious fortune of looking somewhat like the family in order to convince Albrecht.” Jonah pauses, before deciding that this man would very likely take this as an offense.

“I suppose there’s always the full possibility that Aleksei is your father’s bastard,” Jonah suggests. “Which would explain the looks, the name, and the fact that you don’t know him.”

“What an interesting thing to assume,” Gunnar says, eyes flashing. “You must be a very interesting person yourself, Mr. Magnus.”

“More likely, I think, than of some illiterate runaway German girl becoming a boy and insinuating himself into a group of Scottish and English academics,” Jonah says mildly. “Is that the end of your statement, Herr Oedekoven? I’ll admit, with the distance between my Institute and your… haunted house, you said? Well, there’s very little I might do to notate or follow up on it. I will say this, though - whoever Aleksei Oedekoven was, he never mentioned any sort of… ghosts.”

“No?” Gunnar tilts his head to one side. “And what did he tell you of the Hunt, Mr. Magnus? Of being Hunted?”

“Why, nothing, I’m afraid,” Jonah says. “I don’t recall that we ever went hunting together. Ours was more of a professional relationship than not, and we rarely had time to pursue recreation.” 

Gunnar gives him a long, crawling look. “I don’t believe that is the case at all. Mr. Magnus, I think you have chosen to hide this Aleksei from me. Why is that? He is not yours any longer, is he? After all, you have not seen him in four years, you said.”

“Why  _ would  _ I choose to hide him from you?” Jonah challenges. “You’re correct, Herr Oedekoven. I haven’t seen him in four years. I can’t say with any certainty that any of my group of friends and acquaintances still speak regularly with him. The only one of them that I knew for a certainty kept his company is the one who asked that he travel to the Americas on some business of theirs, but it’s been years since and I haven’t received correspondence from either of them in that time.”

Gunnar Oedekoven stands suddenly, and Jonah is quickly reminded of the difference in height between himself and Aleksei. This man is even taller, and broader in the shoulder, and when he grasps Jonah’s collar and lifts him bodily from his chair Jonah doesn’t even feel surprise. He struggles to free himself, clawing fiercely at the man’s hands and face, but Gunnar merely tilts his face and holds Jonah further away to prevent him from getting at his eyes.

“I find it interesting that you would lie to me,” Gunnar murmurs, ignoring the blood beading on his hands and wrists. Jonah kicks furiously, and bashes his own knee into his desk for his troubles, but the noise does seem to garner a little of the man’s attention. Gunnar raises his eyebrows at him. Jonah bares his teeth with a hiss. 

“You’re something of a little monster, aren’t you?” Gunnar asks, his tone disgustingly casual as Jonah dangles from his grasp. “I can’t imagine what my Odessa would see in such a strange little man as you. Even if she is now this Aleksei boy, I don’t see how a person’s tastes could change so deeply. You’re nothing like me at all.”

There is a quiet noise - the soft susurrus of the cloth of Jonah’s collar ripping apart under his weight - and it shocks Jonah into action, into taking a deep breath before nearly screaming, “ _ Unhand me, you miserable lout! _ ” 

“Oh my-my,” Gunnar says, dropping him with a flick of the wrist. He lands in a painful sprawl across his back, his chair upended beneath him, two of its legs snapped away under his weight. He sits up, cursing, and Gunnar tips him a boyish wink. “Well. I suppose I will have to chase this Aleksei of yours down after all, just to be sure that he hasn’t stolen my Odessa from me. Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Magnus. I’m sure with your help I’ll find him quite promptly.”

“I will  _ not _ help you,” Jonah snarls, and Gunnar laughs brightly at him as he clambers upright.

“Of course you will! I just have to look for someone who smells like you’ve had your hands on them,” he replies merrily. “Should be rare enough in America, it seems you’ve kept most of your old toys here or England. Have a lovely day, Mr. Magnus.”

He shuts the door with a mocking little bow just as Jonah scrambles to his feet, panting. He’s nowhere to be seen by the time Jonah wrenches the door to his office open.

Jonah does not slam his fist into the heavy wood of his office door. That would be counter-intuitive, and dramatic, and hurt his knuckles besides.

Jonah merely expresses his fury, physically, between himself and the gleaming oak panels. He then spends the next few minutes massaging his knuckles, sure that he’s broken something vital for a moment or two before he resolves himself to decide that no, no, it just aches. He wonders if he might convince Jonathan to come see to it if it still hurts later; Jonathan’s been nearby on other business, and they have a standing appointment in the evenings for a glass of whisky and a game of cards and absolutely no discussion of the friends they used to have in common.

Jonah pauses, kicking over the ruined remains of what had been a very comfortable and very expensive chair. 

He might just ask Jonathan if he’s heard anything from Aleksei and Luca lately. Jon’d kept in closer communication with Aleksei after - after everything that happened, closer than any of their other friends, barring Luca. It’s not as if Jonah has anything to muddle his conscience over, regarding him. He glances up at his desk, at the statement left by Aleksei’s brother. He ought to just - he ought to burn it, he ought to shred the damned thing - but his hand doesn’t even move towards it. 

No. Jonah will keep it. It’s still a Statement. He knows things about Aleksei now that he didn’t know before. He knows with a certainty that most of that Gunnar Oedekoven said was true, and he knows that he’s never likely to see or speak to Aleksei again, but-

-but it’s one more thing, one last thing, connecting them. 

Jonah blows on the ink to be sure that it’s dry, and files the statement away one-handed.

**1816**

“We need to talk about Aleksei,” Barnabas says, and Jonah straightens up immediately, alarums ringing in his head. Barnabas waves a hand at him. “He’s fine, he’s… behaving himself for Robert and Jonathan. You know he tries to be good for them.”

“I know he  _ tries, _ ” Jonah says, hurriedly putting away his notes and inkwell. “You didn’t tell me they were here already, Barn, let me just-”

“Jonah,” Barnabas says quietly. “We need to talk about Aleksei.”

Jonah gives him a cautious look. He can feel a frown forming. 

“What  _ about  _ him, Barnabas?”

“Jonah,” Barnabas says softly, kindly. “How many times have we had to tie him to his bed for his own self-protection? This week, this month? How many times has he forgotten how to speak, how to eat, how to bathe himself? He’s not the man he was, Jonah.”

“He’s still the man he was,” Jonah snaps, his shoulders raising defensively. “It’s some injury of the brain, Jonathan said very clearly that there are some who recover fully, you can’t just - you can’t just say he’s a different man because he was  _ injured _ , Barnabas.”

“The injury has taken his faculties from him, and he is not the person he was six months past,” Barnabas says, still soft, still kind. “If he were to recover, he would have by now, Jonah. We should be looking into either hiring him a nurse, or-”

“What nurse could care for him the way we can?” Jonah asks, his face growing hot. “Shall we search among the medical field for a nurse who won’t ask questions about who he is or where he’s from or what sort of man he might be? Some nurse who we might trust not to ask such questions about us, about me?”

“Or,” Barnabas says, oh so quiet, “we should look into finding a private hospital that can look after him.”

“No,” Jonah says flatly. “Are you mad, Barnabas? How would that be any better, do you think? No hospital would take him that wasn’t some lunatic asylum, he - he would be tortured, it would be torture for him, they’d force on him to be addressed and treated as a woman is, you know they would-”

“You don’t know that,” Barnabas says, trying to be reasonable as he comes around Jonah’s desk to take his hand. “And you don’t know that it would be  _ torture, _ Jonah. It’s hardly torture to be addressed softly and to wear womanly clothing if it’s in the process of being cared for by doctors and nurses.”

Jonah slaps him across the face. Barnabas steps back, hurt and exasperated, and when Jonah moves to slap him again he catches Jonah’s wrist in one firm hand.

“Get out,” Jonah hisses, and Barnabas releases him, stepping back even further.

“Jonah, it’s  _ my house, _ I’ll not be dispelled like some visitor,” he snaps back, one hand going to his - doubtless quite sore - jawline. “He can’t stay here forever, the way he is. We need to find some way for him to be adequately cared for, it’s the kindest thing to do for him now.”

“We will discuss this later,” Jonah says stiffly, turning away from him. “We have guests.”

Barnabas sighs noisily behind him. 

They will not discuss it later. Jonah has little and less interest in discussing anything regarding Aleksei’s health and care and safety with Barnabas. He ignores Barnabas at dinner, spending all of his time with Robert while Jonathan patiently tests Aleksei’s fine motor control. He ignores Barnabas afterwards as well, Aleksei sprawled across a settee with his head in Jonah’s lap.

Jonah waits until they are fully alone before he carefully brushes the curls from Aleksei’s brow.

“You’re so good, Jonah,” Aleksei mumbles. He barely slurs his words at all nowadays. It’s hardly fair to say he hasn’t been recovering.

“I know,” Jonah says, and Aleksei cracks one eye open to give him a helpless little grin. Jonah smiles faintly down at him. “This is your home, Leksi. You know that, don’t you? This is where you belong.”

“Mm,” Aleksei agrees, sighing and letting his eyes close. 

“This is your home,” Jonah repeats, softly. “And you are  _ mine _ .”

**1988**

“A congratulations are in order, I think,” Jonah says, and Peter catches himself up short. Jonah watches in amused fascination as Peter visibly catalogues what it might be that he’s being congratulated for: his birthday was over a month ago and he’s only thirty-nine, so it can’t be an age-related milestone. He’d been on an extremely normal expedition with the  _ Tundra _ up til last Tuesday and nothing particularly noteworthy or interesting had happened, so it can’t be work related. 

And they’ve only been seeing one another in a… recreational manner for just over eight months now, so it can’t be some sort of relationship milestone. The awkward anxiety of not-knowing, of being aware that Jonah knows something and that Peter can’t guess at what it might be, is deeply enjoyable for a few moments, but Jonah didn’t actually come bring him here tonight to alarm or hurt his currently favorite Lukas. Jonah reaches over and takes Peter’s hand - clammy and chilly and mildly unpleasant to grasp, which is  _ surely  _ an affectation - and, after lacing their fingers together, brushes a mild kiss against Peter’s first and second knuckles. 

Peter blanches even paler than he normally is, both in alarm at being suddenly touched and in embarrassment at experiencing physical affection. Jonah smiles at him.

“You have a new niece,” Jonah explains, and Peter blinks at him, utterly baffled. “Your cousin’s wife had another baby? Conrad and Eveline? You remember them, I presume?”

“I remember Conrad and… Eveline,” Peter says, despite the fact that Jonah Knows he does not, in fact, remember Eveline as more than a vaguely pregnant presence at Conrad’s side. “They’ve already had a baby.”

“Yes, Peter,” Jonah says, sighing and releasing his hand. “That one was a boy. Marshall. The new baby was born just after two in the morning today, perfectly healthy and normal in size, and Conrad has already named it Lucretia against Eveline’s wishes. They’re having a particularly stern discussion over the possibility of the child being nicknamed Lucy. Eveline, if you’re curious, is against it. Apparently Lucy Lukas sounds ridiculous to her ear. I agree.”

“Ah,” Peter says, looking vaguely worried. “James, I’m certain neither of them wants you to be… observant right now.”

“If they can’t be bothered to keep Aleksei out of the room, physically, then I don’t see why I should make an especial effort to keep my Eye away,” Jonah says primly, and Peter huffs a sigh, hunching his shoulders slightly and staring down at his plate. Dinner had been a very simple affair: just the two of them in the well-appointed apartments currently registered under the name James Wright, no maid. The food is acceptably bland - steamed vegetables and pasta smothered in a cream sauce, accompanied by a breaded chicken that cannot possibly be identified as having been a part of a living thing. Jonah even took care to be sure that nothing on the plate would be the incorrect texture or color: nothing with any kind of crunch to it, nothing red or pink. He wanted Peter to enjoy the meal, and so far Peter has enjoyed it immensely, and this has been a terribly successful date.

Jonah wants very badly for this part of the date to go well. He anticipates that the latter half - the part of tonight where he formally announces his intentions to woo Peter romantically to the man Peter’s considered something of a father figure since Willard passed away in ‘64 - will be painfully awkward to the point of dispelling Peter into the arms of the Forsaken. He’d like tonight to go as well as possible before that happens.

“The thing is, James - the thing is, Uncle Aleksei’s family,” Peter says, and Jonah raises his eyebrows at him over a glass of a rather dreary chardonnay, which was chosen because Peter can’t abide by reds or rosés and has not yet been coaxed into enjoying anything sparkling. Peter doesn’t look his way before muttering, “Just seems that they’d want it more private.”

“Well, not to be indelicate, but your uncle is no more blood related to your cousins than I am,” Jonah points out, and Peter wrinkles his nose a bit. There’s still a bit of familial confusion over whether Aleksei is a Fairchild or a Lukas, and amusingly, not a single person has been able to brave a conversation broaching the topic with Aleksei himself. Simon’s gotten in on it as well, because in all of his centuries the man has not grown much past the ridiculous teenager he once was, and quite frankly Aleksei has been encouraging this lie for going on six or seven decades now. It’s utterly absurd.

Equally absurd is the fact that Peter seems to be assuming that Jonah is quite rudely implying one of the few family rumors that exist - that Aleksei is an odd, Vast-aligned black sheep of the family because some Lukas, at some point, behaved rashly with a maidservant, and his presence was merely added into the family to save face. 

Then again, Jonah himself will do nothing to dispel that rumor either. It really is one of the few genuinely entertaining things about the Lukas family - that he would know the truth and that all of them would be so drastically wrong in their assumptions. 

He puts the nearly-empty wineglass down, fiddling with its stem a bit. Peter, bless him, does not particularly notice, having already gone back to gazing blankly at his mostly-empty dinner plate. Jonah watches him for a few moments, before clearing his throat a bit. Peter startles slightly, looking up at him with a faintly quizzical expression.

“There’s a dessert as well,” Jonah says. “I think you’d like it.”

“Oh,” Peter says, blinking. “You don’t… Know?”

“You’ve never had it before,” Jonah explains. “I do think you’d like it, though. Poached pears in earl grey. I even whipped up a vanilla cream for it.”

“ _ You _ made dessert?” Peter asks, and Jonah smiles faintly. “Didn’t think you could cook at all.”

“As a matter of fact, Aleksei taught me how to make them a number of years ago, before you and I met. He seemed to think it was… how did he put it? An affront to the dignity of man that I didn’t have the ability to make my own meals after the life I’d led,” Jonah says with a slightly dramatized sigh, and is rewarded with a small but unmistakably fond smile on Peter’s face. He isn’t quite sure if he’d call Peter handsome - he certainly would have never considered taking Peter’s body to become him even  _ if  _ he’d been a bit younger - but something in the sight of him there makes a part of Jonah feel… settled, like sand at the bottom of a stream or lake. He finds himself more and more wanting to have Peter around to give himself that feeling.

“That does explain it. Uncle Aleksei really loves cooking,” Peter offers, scratching awkwardly at the corner of his bearded jaw. “If it’s his recipe it’d bound to be good.”

“Well, there you have it. I’ll go plate it up if you’re done with that,” Jonah says, and Peter colors faintly before nodding and gesturing mutely at his plate. Jonah stands and gathers up their dinnerware, though once he’s in the kitchen he’s not entirely sure what to do with it. He’s had servants for centuries and has never once actually been required to do without for any period of time in his life. He glances around a bit, and decides to put the plates and flatware in a neat stack on the counter where the maid will surely see it, far enough away from the sink that there’s no risk of it tumbling in and shattering on impact.

It’s the work of a few more minutes to put the poached pears and cream into a pair of glass ice-cream dishes. Jonah thinks for a moment, gauging how close Aleksei is to London, and makes a third serving, placing it in the refrigerator for safekeeping. 

He brings the dessert out and watches carefully as Peter takes a cautious bite of the fruit. He Knows Peter likes it as soon as Peter does, but some small anxiety - a holdover, no doubt, from James Wright’s life before Jonah - wriggles within him, waiting for Peter to say something. Peter takes another bite.

“It’s nice,” Peter says mildly. 

“Only nice?” Jonah asks, fussing with his first spoonful without putting any in his mouth.

“It’s not too sweet at all. It’s, um. It’s good. I like it,” Peter mumbles, and Jonah nods and allows himself a taste. It’s not exactly as sweet as Jonah himself would like, but he’s had it before and it tastes exactly as it did the previous four times he’s eaten it. 

“It’s only the second time I’ve made it,” Jonah offers, and Peter hums at him. “I didn’t know if it came out right.”

“You didn’t taste it while you were cooking?” Peter asks, mildly amused.

“Of course not, I made it for you, I wasn’t going to eat it before you did,” Jonah says, and the faint perplexion he feels deepens slightly as Peter huffs a faint chuckle under his breath. He supposes he could Know what’s so funny - well, he already Knows, for some reason Peter thinks it’s an adorable thing that he just admitted to doing and not an admission of his own lack of practice - but he just wants to sit and enjoy his dessert with Peter and Watch and Know that Peter is enjoying it, as well. Well, there’s no stopping him. Peter shoots him another tiny, embarrassed smile, and goes back to his pears and cream. Jonah gives himself another small bite. He’s actually quite pleased with how it’s come out, though he suspects Aleksei is going to do something dreadful, like pour chocolate sauce on his.

Jonah enjoys the next several minutes of quiet as the two of them finish their dessert. He takes a quick Look for Aleksei, and sits up in his seat after a moment.

“Aleksei will be here in the next few minutes,” he announces, and Peter chokes around his final mouthful of pear. Jonah watches him for a moment, frowning. “Do you need me to slap your back, Peter?”

“No, I don’t,” Peter wheezes, pushing the ice-cream dish away. “Why’s he coming here? I thought you - you said he’s in Kent pestering Conrad.”

“Well, he took to the skies some time ago, and he seems to be aiming for my balcony,” Jonah says, pleased. Perhaps it will go better than he thinks. Peter seems to be in a fine enough mood, and Aleksei’s always tickled by the idea of people having children, and is even more fond of Peter than Jonah is. Jonah stands, and - feeling a bit bold, due more to the heady Knowledge that Peter is glad to be here and glad to be with him than to the glass of wine - he brushes the faintest kiss against Peter’s cheek. 

Peter suffers the contact with a flustered huff, eyes downcast, and Jonah runs a hand over his shoulder for a second. 

“I Know you don’t like when I touch you in front of other people,” he murmurs, and Peter shoots him a grateful smile. Jonah wonders if there mightn’t be something to the idea of the sort of sticky romances he and Barnabas used to read together, skewering the authors and characters with their heads pillowed on each other’s bodies. He knows - he Knows, when he’s unsure of himself - that he and Barnabas loved one another at one point, that he still, in some way, loves Barnabas. He knows that he loves Aleksei with an unwavering force - Aleksei knows him, Knows him, has allowed himself to be Known in return - and that every gap in their acquaintance gets shorter and shorter because he can no longer bear the distances that sprang up between them. He knows, too, that the magnitude of this early… stickiness with Peter, fledgling and forming as it is, feels as though it shadows everything else in his remembrance of such things. 

He knows Peter will linger in his memory long after death, like Barnabas. He knows he will allow Peter to know him - has already allowed Peter to know him more than any mortal man who yet lives. He knows that he’ll always want Peter to come back to him, but more than that, he finds himself wondering how to make it so that Peter doesn’t or can’t leave in the first place. 

Jonah smiles down at Peter, and there is a delicate little thump from the balcony, and then the rattle of Aleksei’s key as he lets himself in. Jonah has time to approach the dining-room door before Aleksei flings it open, windswept and wild.

“Aleksei, look who’s here-” Jonah starts pleasantly, and Aleksei kisses him, driving him back against the wall with a thud. Behind them Peter’s mortified face is already buried in his hands. Jonah puts a firm hand against Aleksei’s chest and Aleksei’s own broad hand wraps around it, before he turns and presses a kiss into his palm. His mind is a flurry of far too many things - want, and loneliness, and the wind and the stars, and every face Jonah’s worn in the past hundred and fifty years, and every moment of tenderness Aleksei can remember between them, and every child Aleksei’s been allowed to hold - and Jonah gently pushes him away. “Come back to yourself, Leksi, I have something to tell you.”

“James,” Aleksei breathes out, eyes closed. “Do you think I can get pregnant? I suppose I should be asking if your dick still works, but you’d do that for me, wouldn’t you? Assuming your dick still has the, you know, the things all are still-”

“You came in right as Peter and I were finishing dessert,” Jonah says coolly, and Aleksei’s eyes snap open and he gives Peter a look of equally mortified bafflement. 

“Oh  _ no _ , I didn’t think-” he starts, and Jonah shoves him back a little, annoyed at how close to fleeing this has put Peter. 

“You never do, do you?” he snaps, and at Aleksei’s look of quiet hurt he sighs, and gestures into the kitchen. “I saved you a dessert. It’s in the refrigerator.” 

“You did? Did you make it yourself?” Aleksei asks, surprised, and Jonah puts a hand over his eyes.

“Peter also asked me that. Yes, it’s poached pears and vanilla cream. You’ll probably think it’s not sweet enough,” he adds glumly, and Peter pipes up with a shy  _ i liked it, _ which Jonah does appreciate. “You know your way around my kitchen.”

“Better’n you do, if we’re honest, Old Man,” Aleksei says, giving Peter an apologetic smile. He looks a little younger than Jonah does, but he’s been skirting the fifty-ish look for three or four decades now, so who knows how old Peter thinks he is. “Sorry about earlier, Petey, I know you don’t want to witness your wrinkled old Uncle Leksi be obscene at your friend.”

“Um,” Peter says, visibly alarmed at the prospect of even more awkwardness to come. Jonah gives Aleksei a sour look and waves him off. Aleksei gives him the dignity of trying the pears and cream before he adds anything to it, and ends up topping it with crispy coconut shavings, the sort of thing Peter would never be able to tolerate. 

Jonah gives Peter a small, apologetic look. “I do not know what brought that on,” he starts to say, then stop, wincing. “No, I do. He… he deeply enjoyed his time with Marshall and Lucretia and your cousins, of course. He spent the flight here feeling maudlin about having never had children of his own.”

Peter wrinkles his nose again; he’s never been able to see the appeal in it. Jonah swallows tightly. 

“Do you want me to make him leave? I’d rather spend more time with you here than… than have you go off to be alone because he’s so… much himself,” Jonah says, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen. Aleksei leans into the doorway, dessert in hand.

“I know you know I can hear you from the kitchen, Jimmy,” Aleksei teases, and Peter actually shoots Jonah a sympathetic glance at the awful nickname. “And I agree, I didn’t know you were here, darling. I’d much rather you enjoy spending time with friends, you know! A couple of old bastards like the two of us can catch up any old time.”

“You don’t have to go, I just - don’t want to hear about, um,” Peter says, blushing. 

“Of course, darling,” Aleksei says, pretending to zipper his mouth shut before going back to eating his pears. “I must say, I didn’t expect to see you here! I was hoping you’d have met some nice young man who likes long quiet walks on the beach. Did you try that pen-pal service I told you about?”

“I didn’t, no,” Peter mumbles, and Jonah clears his throat.

“Aleksei, you will be the first to know that Peter and I are seeing one another, romantically,” he says, and Aleksei’s teeth come down hard enough on the spoon that when he pulls it hastily from his mouth the bowl has been bent nearly in half. Jonah sits down at the table with Peter again. “I thought you might be interested to know that this has been going on for a bit over eight months and I expect that it will continue for quite some time.”

“I feel as though you might have given me the courtesy of letting me know at some point before I swept in here kissing you and being all - all that, with you,” Aleksei chokes out, his golden skin crimson. “God’s sake, James.”

“Well, I wanted to be sure,” Jonah says, and Aleksei gestures at him with the ruined spoon.

“Eight months! Eight entire months? Not even a whiff! I didn’t even know you’d have company,” he huffs, then glances at the spoon in his hand. “Well, Peter, is this true?”

“Er, yes, Uncle,” Peter says, eyes darting towards Jonah. “It’s been… nice.”

“Alright. And you’ll tell me if it’s ever… not nice,” Aleksei prompts, and Jonah bristles.

“What exactly does  _ that  _ mean?” he asks, and Aleksei gives him a smile that borders on cruel.

“You know what I mean, love.” He turns back toward Peter. “And he’s been making you happy, darling?”

“Well - well, so far, yes,” Peter says hesitantly. “He’s been very kind, you know.”

“I do know,” Aleksei says, and there is a wistfulness in him when he glances at Jonah again. “Well, of course I know. We’ve been friends for what, hundred and fifty years?”

“Closer to two hundred,” Jonah points out. Peter’s eyebrows shoot up the length of his forehead; as far as revealing their true ages goes, he’s taking it better than Jonah would have expected. A bit of petty revenge on Aleksei’s part for making him uncomfortable, but they might has well have this conversation at an early stage and get it over with.

“I’m not two hundred years old  _ yet, _ though,” Aleksei responds, using his fingers to eat the rest of his dessert. “I’m what, one ninety-three?”   


“Not til your birthday in seven months,” Jonah says, sighing. “And it’s still closer to two hundred than to one-fifty.”

“Well, I suppose I have to allow you the courtesy of agreeing, since I can’t muddle out the maths of it,” Aleksei suggests, licking cream off his hand. “Right. Say, there’s a load of dirty dishes on your counter, I’m going to take care of that for you while you two, uh, chat. About things. Privately.”

“If you’ll enjoy it, then do so,” Jonah dismisses, and Aleksei gives him a soggy little wave before wandering into the kitchen. Jonah waits until he hears the tap running before he looks at Peter again. “So. You surely have some questions.”

“You were born in thirty-one,” Peter says, after a moment. “I’ve looked you up.”

“James Wright was born in 1931,” Jonah corrects gently. “I was born in 1890.” He waves at the kitchen. “Aleksei was born in 1895.” 

“I gathered, from the… conversation,” Peter says quietly, thinking for a moment. “But James Wright  _ is  _ a real person, so how-”

“James Wright was  _ born  _ a real person. In 1973 I gave him a set of choices, and one of those choices was to allow me to step into his body and, essentially, become him. James is the name I have now. I’ve had a number of names,” Jonah says, then, quietly, “though the one that was mine when Aleksei and I first became friends was Jonah.”

“I gathered that as well,” Peter says, and at Jonah’s surprised look he barks out a soft laugh. “You work in a building with your old name on the front door, as the most important person in there. That’s, um. That’s very  _ you _ . And I know the year Jonah Magnus was born, of course. My Father thought family history was terribly important, and Uncle Nathaniel still does. And - not to be, um, rude, but you also… know quite a bit about Scottish land inheritance laws from the Georgian era and have a number of very strong opinions about it, far more than would be reasonable even for a man who supposedly knows everything.”

“I could be a hobbyist,” Jonah protests, and Peter gives him that fragile smile, tinged with fondness.

“There’s no such hobby as that, James-” he starts, then frowns. Jonah waves a hand.

“The name fits the body, I find,” he says, and Peter nods slowly. “I presume you’ll still be referring to me as James until I end up in need of a new one.”

“That’s… odd,” Peter decides, but Jonah can already see it - the loneliness inherent in falling in love with someone, and then having to reconcile never seeing that person again while they pilot an entirely new body instead - appealing to Peter’s sensibilities. “Alright.”

“The average person would be horrified, I think. You’re taking this very well,” Jonah says, pleased, and Peter gives him a small smile.

“I captain a ship for the sole purpose of confounding my sailors into feeding the strength of the Fog through their terror,” he says plainly. “My measure of unacceptable strangeness is somewhat different from your average person, James.” 

“You also do some shipping,” Jonah says, and Peter rolls his eyes. “Well… good.”

“Were you worried that I’d be… alienated by the idea of over a century’s gap in our ages?” Peter asks teasingly. Jonah fights the urge to smile, waving a hand in his direction. 

“Of course not. Would you like to spend the night in your guest room?” Jonah asks, and in the kitchen the water shuts off quickly as Aleksei sticks his head into the room.

“My guest room’s still mine, though?” he asks, hastily towelling off his hands. “Only I was planning on sleeping here tonight.”

“The guest room you normally use is still set the way you like it and reserved for your use, yes,” Jonah says, sighing. “I have more than one guest room.”

“I know that,” Aleksei says, putting his hands to his lower back and stretching.

“You really ought to have your own flat in London if you’re going to visit so often,” Jonah adds, and Aleksei nods.

“I know that, too. You two hammered everything out regarding, uh, ancient secrets and whatever?”

“Just about,” Peter says, and Jonah smiles at him. 

“Perfect.” There’s a faint bitterness in Aleksei that he is succeeding in tamping down inside him; Jonah only knows because he Knows Aleksei, through and through. Aleksei smiles thinly.

“Well, since we’re all together-”

“Oh, Leksi, no-” Jonah starts, and Aleksei barrels forward anyway.

“-it’s the perfect time to sit down and make you two watch a film with me before bed,” he says, clapping his hands. The bastard knows Peter will feel obligated to do as he wants, and that Jonah will feel cheated if he doesn’t spend this time in Peter’s physical presence. 

In the end he makes them suffer through not one but  _ two _ films, and then spends a solid hour and a half debating Jonah on which dominions  _ The Thing  _ would wall under and campaigning very poorly, in Jonah’s opinion, for it to be the domain of the Vast. 

And Peter is there the entire time, smiling faintly and shooting Jonah significant glances, and, well. Jonah finds he can forgive Aleksei a little, after all.

**1816**

Luca Napolitano is an old man, and Jonah is frozen into his seat with shock and worry. The same fear he felt when Aleksei fell - was thrown - is back, even though it’s been nearly nine months since Jonah saw the terrifying child who stole Aleksei out of a window and left them with the drifting, weakening thing that’s been haunting Leksi’s place in their world. His eyes are still the same lightning-bright points of light they were that October night. Jonah… Jonah does not wish to think of it.

Luca manages to look very stern through his normally jolly demeanor, standing akimbo in Jonah’s office. Jonah can’t quite believe that he has the audacity to try a shaming look on Jonah, after what he did, after what they both know he did.

“I wouldn’t have left our Leksi with you for so long if I’d known you’d have starved him so,” Luca says, and Jonah splutters. “Even if you weren’t invested in his wellbeing, I thought you’d have wanted to observe his progress, but I seem to have misjudged you terribly.”

“Aleksei has been safe here - safe and fed and unharmed, even through his recovery,” Jonah says, standing up. He adores Luca - he thinks he does, he knows he did once - but he thinks if Luca comes any closer to accusing him of harming their friend he might find himself moved to violence against the old man. “His recovery, by the by, from an injury  _ you _ inflicted on him - or do you pretend to me now that you had no hand in it, Luca?”

“He is not recovering, though, is he, dear?” Luca asks, eyes twinkling. “He fades, growing weaker by the day. Why, have you even once allowed him to gather his strength as our God dictates, or has he been held back by your squeamishness?”

Jonah slams his palm flat against the surface of his desk, and Luca giggles at him. The sound is even more outrageous - it’s the laugh of a very young man, it’s the laugh of the child who took Aleksei from Jonah, and it’s all the more grating for having come from such a wizened figure. In an instant, the love Jonah has for him vanishes - even the concept of love seems distant - and Jonah’s hand lands on his letter opener, and it gleams from the end of his fist as he raises it.

“Oh, that’s really enough of that, isn’t it?” Luca asks, and Jonah-

-is suddenly-

-away, away from everything, suspended in the cool air between night and sunset, clouds whipping past him, soaking through his curls and his shirtsleeves.

It mustn’t be more than a minute or two, but it leaves Jonah stunned and gasping for breath, half-curled on the rug of his own office, cold water dripping from his hair. Luca looks down at him, and when he offers Jonah a hand up Jonah bats it furiously away, still breathless. Luca sighs noisily at him.

“Be that way if you must, dear,” he says. “I am taking Aleksei with me. He’ll be heartier - better than he used to be - when next you see him. I only thought you might want to See for yourself how wonderful he might become, so-” 

Luca gestures towards Jonah’s office window.

“-if you like, you’ll see our dear Aleksei enjoy a decent meal,” he says, smiling. Jonah thinks of Barnabas, tiny on the lawn, and he surges to his feet, for a moment terrified and dreading… but no. Aleksei is sprawled on a blanket in the grass, his shoes and waistcoat to one side, his body soft and open in a way that Jonah loves and thinks of as his sole domain. There is a man walking towards him, casting around glances before sitting next to their sleeping friend. The man almost resembles Aleksei, at first glance - tall, taller than even Mordechai is, and broad-shouldered, and blonde. 

“Where is Jonathan?” Jonah rasps, and Luca chuckles softly.

“I think he drew Barnabas into a heated debate about whether or not Aleksei would be safe in an asylum,” Luca says, and then chuckles again. “Jonathan has the right of it, of course; Aleksei would wither away if he were trapped in some tiny cell away from the call of the sky. But I expect neither of them will finish their talk in time to notice the man I called here for Leksi.”

The man on the lawn puts a hand on Aleksei’s stomach, and Aleksei stirs, looking up at him. From here Jonah can see the dreamy cast to Aleksei’s face for a few seconds, before his eyes widen in alarm.

“Who is it?” Jonah asks, and Luca makes a small scoffing noise.

“You’ve never spoken to our Aleksei about his family, I take it?” he asks, and Jonah frowns.

“Briefly,” he says, and does not admit what he knows of Aleksei’s terror of being found by his trio of brothers. “You didn’t bring one of his kin here, did you?”

“Oh, of course not. Dreadful boys, the lot of them,” Luca scoffs. “No. This gentleman… well, I perhaps chose him for his resemblance to them, because it  _ would  _ startle our lad. But I also gave him just a touch of the sky. Enough to fear it, but also enough to know it for the weapon that it is. And then I told him that his rebirth into a creature of the sky would be complete after he used it to subdue a man who fears his own smallness. And then I brought him here, and told him he would know the man when he saw him.”

“What?  _ Why? _ ” Jonah asks, unable to tear his eyes away. Aleksei shrinks back from the man, and the man crowds him, one knee between his thighs. “He- he’s going to hurt Aleksei, he’s going to-”

“He will  _ try  _ to hurt Aleksei,” Luca says simply. “But he doesn’t love the Vast the way Aleksei does, and the Vast doesn’t love him the way it loves our Leksi. He will try to hurt Aleksei, and Aleksei will devour him instead.”

“You don’t  _ know _ that,” Jonah hisses, and Luca turns finally, giving him a pitying look.

“No,” he says simply. His voice is terribly gentle. “I don’t have to. I don’t suppose it would suit your nature to take it on faith, Jonah.”

“I’m going down there - I’ll not lose him to your bizarre games-” Jonah starts, and Luca grasps his arm before he can leave.

“Watch,” Luca says. “Watch and See for yourself, Jonah dear.”

Below them the man and Aleksei are a tangle of limbs, and there is a sudden movement - the man’s hand raised back, ready to strike - and something shifts between them. They are far enough away that Jonah cannot see who it is that has his hands around the other’s throat; they are so enormous that Jonah can see the delicate flutter of blood passing through the veins under Aleksei’s eyes, thudding through his flesh like a torrent. A hand seizes a fistful of blonde curls. Impossibly distant, a man is thrust into the sky, scrabbling for purchase against the equally tiny man beneath him. 

Jonah breaks free of Luca’s grasp and dashes downstairs. He doesn’t know what he would or even could do to the man who came here, but all he can think of is Aleksei, dangling in the night air, Aleksei screaming, Aleksei taken from the warmth and softness of Jonah’s grasp and thrown into the cold-

-the air is bright and sunny, it is a warm late-spring day, and Aleksei is alone on the lawn, sitting up from his sprawl with most of his weight back on his elbows. He blinks slowly, when Jonah calls his name. There is no sign of the man anywhere, save for a single brown shoe, a few yards away. 

“Jonah?” Aleksei asks. He sounds stronger than he did this morning. The bruises under his eyes - the product of too many restless nights - are still there, but faded. His mouth is a little reddened, a little soft. He even looks like he’s put some weight back on, even though Jonah knows it’s been a struggle to get him to eat, that he’s wept and retched and only submitted to taking meals at Jonah’s command the last few weeks.

“Aleksei,” Jonah says, some part of him numb to the relief that he knows he should feel. “You - you were sleeping, out on the grass.”

“I was?” Aleksei rolls his head back on his neck, exhaling slowly. He looks a little less full and content, anxiety pulling at the corners of his mouth, tightening the space around his eyes. “I had a dream, Jonesy. Such a dream. It was… it was frightening.”

“Tell me, Leksi,” Jonah says, taking a step closer. Something in the back of his throat rises, reaches through his teeth. “ _ Tell me what frightened you. _ ”

“I was here and I was safe,” Aleksei says, frozen in place, eyes going wide and round. “I was safe, because I’m home, only - only Gunnar came, he found me, he was here, and I tried to cry out for you and he covered my mouth, he said I’d be his, and I-” A small, helpless giggle bubbles up from Aleksei’s chest. “I  _ bit  _ him, Jonesy, I bit his hand. And he tried to hit me and I said, I said no. I told him no. I  _ never  _ told him no, Jonah, I was always too afraid of him to say no, because even when he was taking care of me he hurt me, and I always, I always thought it’d be worse if I said no, but Jonah, I said no this time, and, and he, he was frightened of  _ me  _ this time.”

Aleksei shudders, eyes still round and gleaming. “He was frightened of me. I know it was a dream. Gunnar would never be frightened of me, not ever, but… but he was, in the dream, and I was glad. It was good.” Aleksei licks his lips, trembling. “But I was frightened, even after - even after he was afraid, even after I, I made him go away, I was frightened, because it was good. Oh, Jonah. It’s still good.”

Something between them snaps, and Aleksei sags back, going limp, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“That was very rude of you,” Luca says brightly. Jonah turns, startled. Luca gives him a smile, though there’s a bit of a hard edge to it as he does. “I rather had been hoping he’d get enough out of that meal to recover a bit, you know. It doesn’t do him much good for you to swoop in and snatch the strength from his lips mere moments after he’s done.”

Jonah takes a step back.

“Oh, Luca?” Aleksei mumbles, forcing himself to sit up. “Luca’s here, Jonesy.”

“He is,” Jonah says, and he swallows tightly. “He’s here to take you with him.”

“What?” Aleksei blinks up at him, and Jonah finds himself longing to ask Aleksei what it was he saw when he was given to the sky. He bites back the urge to give the question his voice; he turns on his heel and does not look back, even when he hears Aleksei plaintively ask Luca what it was he did wrong, even when he hears Luca chuckle and tell him that he did nothing wrong at all.

He takes the long way back into the manor. Jonathan meets him at the door, eyes wild. Behind him is Barnabas, looking contrite.

“Jonah, is Aleksei with you? He’s not upstairs, nor-” Jonathan starts, and Jonah dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

“Luca has been here,” he says, and Jonathan’s expression immediately narrows: suspicion and concern. “You were right, Barnabas. Aleksei couldn’t recover here. Luca’s taken him to-” Jonah catches himself before he says that Luca’s taken him to learn how to hunt, and shakes his head. “Luca didn’t say where they’d be going, but he convinced me that he was best prepared to care for Aleksei in his current condition.”

“Well did-” Jonathan starts, then stops, flustered. “Did he tell you when we might expect them to return here, Jonah?”

“He didn’t, Jon,” Jonah admits, and he shoots Barnabas a terse smile. “I suppose  _ you’re _ happy.”

“Well, if our Leksi is getting the proper care that he needs, then yes, I am,” Barnabas says easily. Jonah realizes that he is very near to saying something regretful, and he turns and stalks back to his office.

He does not seek either of them out again tonight. He sleeps, eventually, in Aleksei’s cold and empty bed, and it feels like the weight of William Bennett’s eyes are on him once more. He clears the room of Aleksei’s things. He and Barnabas do not make use of it again during their time together.

**2015**

[CLICK.]

Liquid sloshes, and there is a sound of muffled breathing. A door opens, and a man’s voice immediately chides, “Gertrude.”

“Damn,” is huffed out under an old woman’s breath. Liquid continues to slosh and splash; she does not pause to face her accuser. There is a rustle of clothing; something is moved, and the third person’s voice is no longer muffled.

“Came to help,” the third person says, slurring his words. “I can’t… if Maxwell makes it all Dark, I - I’ll never be free of him, I can’t, we - I came to help, and, and she, she hit me with something, and it, it hurt, felt like I was sucked under-”

“I Know,” the first person says. It is almost tender. The woman does not stop what she is doing, though she scoffs. “I presume you thought he, what? Came to spy on you? A bit superfluous, wouldn’t you think?”

“Of course not,” she says, a bit sternly. “You haven’t spoken to one another in years outside of your pathetic little intermediary.” 

“Peter’s a good boy,” the third person mumbles. “He’s a good boy.”

“Then-?”

“He might have stopped me,” she says, matter-of-factly. 

“I see,” the first man says, his voice cold. “I suppose there’s a reason why you’ve elected to burn everything down rather than come for me directly?”

“I was rather hoping the fire would occupy you while I did just that,” she replies. 

“That’s dangerous,” the third person mutters fretfully; he is ignored.

“How long  _ have  _ you known?” the first man asks.

“You shouldn't worry. Your wretched Victorian pet didn’t say anything,” she grunts, and there’s another soft, ignored noise from the third person. “I put the pieces together soon after you took your new host and we had our little… chat. It wasn’t exactly a huge leap to the panopticon after that. The hard part was figuring out how to actually reach it. Took me the better part of a decade.”

“So you burn the place down and murder my oldest friend, use it as cover to reach my body, and then we die together,” the first man sneers. “How poetic. Doesn’t seem like your style at all.”

“Hey?” the third person tries again. “Leave me out of the murder-suicide and arson?”

“Not suicide,” the woman says. “Just murder.”

“And exactly how did you plan on accomplishing-” the first man starts, before huffing out a soft chuckle. “Oh, I see. How clever. I’d thought Eric was the only one to figure that little morsel out.”

“Knowledge has a way of surviving,” she replies. “You of all people should know that.”

“Is there any way we could continue this conversation in the open air?” the third person asks weakly. “Preferably on the way to stop the Grand Eclipse, eh?”

“If I’d known this would be how you reacted to being rescued from a hostage situation, I’d have left the gag in, Aleksei.” The first man lowers his voice a little. “You know, Gertrude, you might have gotten away with it if you hadn’t involved him.”

“I still might. Just needs a little spark, and-”

There is a quiet rustle, and the heavy click of a handgun being cocked. 

“Hm, I see. Finally getting your hands dirty? I must have really caught you off guard when I took your Vastling down,” she says, sounding amused.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the third person sighs.

“I suppose that’s broadly correct,” the first man says coolly. “I enjoyed following your progress, in a way. Fifty years is certainly longer than anyone else ever managed, in your position.”

“Spare me the flattery, as you can see I’m  _ rather  _ busy, so either shoot me or-”

There are three gunshots in a row, each half a breath apart. The woman gasps. There is a thud as someone falls to the stone floor.

“Well. There it is,” she wheezes. “Thought it would hurt more.”

There is a short silence. 

“You killed her,” the third person says, very softly.

“She would have killed us both,” the first man says gruffly. “Very nearly did kill you.”

“She was yours. Fifty years, you said.”

“Well.” There is another rustling of clothing. “You’ve been mine longer than that, Leksi.”

There is a soft sound; a keen ear will detect the noise of lips pressing against yielding flesh for a moment as the tape gently whirs.

“You fucking weirdo,” the third person murmurs. “There’s a corpse in the room.”

“She’s not going to see us,” the first man replies, his voice muffled. “You went out of the world. I couldn’t See you. I thought - I thought she did kill you, at first.”

“She didn’t.” The third voice is very gentle. “Please, let’s get out of here. We can… we can discuss you gallantly saving my life from a geriatric old woman in your office, can’t we?”

The first man sighs.

“Of course. Let me just get this.”

“Were - Elias, were you recording this  _ whole _ ti-”

[CLICK.]

[CLICK.]

“You’re one hundred percent sure?”

“Yes. There is absolutely no chance that Rayner’s ritual will succeed. In fact, it may weaken him enough to end him as a threat entirely. You’re safe, Aleksei.”

“Are you one  _ million _ percent sure?”

“There’s no such thing as a million percent, Aleksei. Do not doubt the Knowledge again.”

“Fuck off.” There is a weary sigh and a long pause. “I wouldn’t have let her kill you. You-you or the mummy-you.”

“They’re both me. And I know, Aleksei. I didn’t let her kill you either.”

“That’s true.”

A chair creaks.

“So that explains why Simon’s boat thing didn’t pan out, then?”

“I imagine so, yes. I’m sure the Hunters showing up to disrupt the Ritual also had something to do with it.”

“But if it weren’t Hunters it’d be, say, a giant shark, or, I don’t know, an iceberg. Something would have happened no matter what.”

“I can’t really guess at what might have happened, Leksi, only what did.”

“So… so there really isn’t any point to any of the Rituals, then, either? None of them would ever do anything past an inconvenience for bystanders.”

“The right Ritual could still work-”

“Oh, but to what purpose?” There is a noisier sigh and another creak. “You know what I think-”

“-I do know, yes-”

“-I think none of these Rituals ever work because you’re all basically praying to thin air. They don’t bring anything forth because there’s nothing or no-one to bring forth.”

“...leaving aside the inherent ridiculousness of an undying avatar of the fear of cosmic insignificance being a devout atheist-”

“I’d believe in any god that proved it existed to me, that’s not the  _ same  _ thing-”

“-Aleksei, how exactly do you think you came to be an undying avatar of fear?”

“Oh, we’re in  _ your  _ Institute but now  _ I _ have to play the scientist? Get your crack team of researchers to figure it out, not me!”

There is a small, fond huff of laughter from both of them.

“Stay as long as you like. I’ve missed you, you know.”

“Oh, you terrible old man, I know you did. I missed you too. Are you going to Evan’s wedding?”

“Well, I’m sure I won’t be invited, since Peter and I are in the final processes of our divorce-”

“Oh, they always give me a plus one, and you know I’m the only one who gets a plus one. You can come with me.” The chair creaks. “No hanky panky, of course.”

“A reasonable amount of panky, and only private hanky.” 

“I am utterly certain it ought to be the other way ‘round, but we can negotiate it later.” There is a long, drawn-out sigh. “I’m still angry with you, you know.”

“I do know, yes.”

“He was my friend.”

“And I  _ am  _ your friend. Would you have rather I passed into nothingness these last twenty years?”

“No, I - of course not, Elias, I just-” A heavy sigh. “You’re impossible sometimes, d’you know that?”

“Yes.” There is a silence, and then a rustle of paperwork. “I have to choose a new Archivist.”

“Oh, perhaps one that doesn’t kill people? I don’t know what was in that book she hit me with but it came on me like a sack of bricks.”

“It was one of Jurgen Leitner’s tomes on the Buried, Leksi.”

“I’ve met him, haven’t I? Tiresome. Very much like you.”

“You think everyone who allies themself to the Eye is like me.”

“Hm.” An extended silence. “What are you going to do about Gertrude? You can’t just leave her in-”

“I was going to leave her in there.”

“You’re… alright. That’s weird. You understand how it’s weird?”

“She’ll come in handy later, Aleksei.”

“That’s unnecessarily gruesome, love. So how do you go about hiring an Archivist nowadays? Put out an ad on the spooky internet?”

“I was going to promote from within.”

“Oh, deary me, it’s time for your annual performance review, and oh, says here you’ve turned in all your TPS reports and eaten seventeen eyeballs a night this year? Oh,  _ ja,  _ you’re to be promoted! How do you feel about arson?” 

“Do you know what a TPS report is?”

“I do not. I’ve seen Office Space six times and I’ve never yet had it explained to me. I don’t wish for you to do so, though, I like a bit of mystery.”

“Idiot.” 

“Really, though, how do you pick?”

“Mm. I have a few candidates. The right personalities for it, the fortitude to withstand avatarhood, the ability to ask the right questions while simultaneously not understanding or trusting the answers. The real issue is trying to determine which one of them ought to be the Head Archivist and which ones ought to be Archival Assistants.”

“Just pick the one who wants it most and also won’t go around killing people. This doesn’t seem hard at all.”

“It’s not as simple as that, Aleksei.”

“I’ll help you pick. I’ll just pick the cutest one, then.”

“They’re all, objectively, cute.”

“Oh? I should come around more often then. Ogle the oglers, if you will.”

“You disgust me, Leksi.”

“Oh, don’t fuss, you’ll always be my favorite.”

“...yes, I suppose I always will be.”

[CLICK.]


	4. 1818

**1818**

My Dearest Jonah,

I Know why it is we cannot be together and yet a part of me wishes it weren’t so. Perhaps it is just that I miss you, miss the luminescence of your good favour even as I am glad to be rid of the capriciousness of your temper. Still, I do not regret our Parting; better for our love to be at this distance and still whole, than to be close to and overripe with resentments and mistrust. You are more than a forbidden fruit to me, but the temple of my ruination, and as deeply as I wish for things to be as they once were, I Know, in my heart, that it is far better this way.

Still. I do miss our talks. I miss Seeing you in the earliest light of dawn. I miss the touch of your hand. I think I shall negotiate a journey back up to visit you in the home place; it’s only been three months as of this writing since I’ve Seen you but doubtless it will be more by the time I See you again.

 ~~I wish I could~~ That’s enough of that! Quite enough of that indeed. Pardon the smears in the ink, water dripped from a glass I’d been drinking at my desk. Another one of my bad habits, eh?

Now where was I? Oh yes! After I received your most recent letter I also received a pamphlet in the mail, advertising the grand opening of your Marvelous Institution! Well done, Jonah! I’m quite sure Father would have hated it, and there’s nothing that makes me happier than Knowing his house is being put to uses that would turn the old man’s soul on its spit deep in the fires of Hell, if such a place yet existed. I haven’t run across any stories or tales that might be of use to your academic pursuits just yet, but I’m sure I will find something to add to your records any day now! Though perhaps it will be a bit more like the old days, when I merely had to muddle along not Knowing what it was you chaps were all on about.

Oh, speaking of the old days - you will never Guess who it was I Saw this last week. It was none other than Mordechai Lukas, freshly married to some foreign girl and, I must add, none too pleased to See me. Still, I hadn’t Seen him since that disastrous party nearly three years ago, and I wasn’t about to let an old acquaintance slip past me so easily! He did ask after you, and I told him what we two have agreed to tell our mutual friends. Then he asked after Aleksei Oedekoven, and was quite upset to hear that neither of us has Seen him in two years or more. It took some explaining to make him See that Leksi simply couldn’t stay with either of us after his little “Accident.” And yes, I was sure to use your phrasing exactly even though you know that I surely think Aleksei had always lingered a little too closely to those places he might fall from.

I will admit - in privacy, and to you alone - that I still See Mordechai as the silly, rough-edged boy he was when we first met him. I cannot help it, Jonah, it’s so terribly _funny_ to See him pretending at adulthood and steering his meek little churchmouse of a wife around by the arm. She wasn’t much of anything to report, I must say - she seemed struck with shyness, and barely spoke above a whisper to me, and barely spoke to me at all, as a matter of fact. I had only a moment to ask Mordechai how it was he became acquainted of her, but all he would say in that regard was that they met through mutual pursuits. Perhaps you will have better luck in Knowing what he Sees in her, eh? 

The flowers along my street are in full bloom, Jonah. I’m going to press one and send it with my next letter. I hope it isn’t too forward of me to do so.

As in Everything,

Dutifully Yours,

Barnabas Bennett 

**1824**

Jonah barely allows the coach to stop before he is running full-pelt up the gravel to Moorland House. The doorman gives him a frightful stare, but he must be inured against the effects of his own fear to stand there thusly and not open the door at Jonah’s approach.

“Open the door!” Jonah commands, and the doorman does not, and is visibly baffled. He’s not one of the servants Jonah knew in a vague sort of way a decade ago. Perhaps he doesn’t know the sort of danger a small, soft man like Jonah might pose to anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. “Open the thrice-damned door, you-”

“Sir,” the doorman protests, gloved hands raised. “Who am I opening the door to?”

Jonah lowers his fists, and in doing so realizes that his fists were raised. “Jonah Magnus. And be quick about it.”

“I shall ask my master if he is seeing any visitors today,” the man says dubiously, and Jonah takes another step towards him. It does nothing to intimidate the man, however, and he swiftly retreats inside before Jonah can say another word. It is long - it is far too long - before he returns with a stiff, faintly remorseful expression.

“Master Lukas will see you in the red drawing room-” he starts, and Jonah pushes past him.

“I Know where it is,” Jonah growls, stalking into the aforementioned drawing-room. How much time has passed for Barnabas in the cold corners of his forgotten world? How many days since Jonah found his letter, and how many nights? The answers obscure themselves, and Jonah is frustrated by the sudden failure to produce an answer where in the days and months and years past answers always came so readily and at his call. 

Mordechai is already there, sitting on the edge of a small couch near the banked, dim fireplace. His wife - Ofelia, mother of his two children, wife of six years and partner for nearly seven - stands over him, a hand on his shoulder, and Jonah knows that it is the only contact he’d had of her the last six days, and that before that they’d reached out and held hands from across the length of their frankly shocking bed for hours, not speaking, not moving, just looking at one another in the dark, barely able to see one another at all. 

Ofelia’s dark eyes narrow at him. She does not believe that the Fears are what they are - entities of enormous power outside of mortal existence. She believes the powers are a different thing, a kind of friend. She does not like how Jonah has influenced her husband’s thoughts on the matter, and intends to steer him towards her own way of thinking, and Jonah Knows, with a vicious, savage sort of delight, that she has something lurking inside of her womb, that she will surely succumb to it long before the end of either his or Mordechai’s lives. 

Jonah wastes no time, once he has tasted of their lives.

“Release Barnabas at once,” he says, and Mordechai’s eyebrows move up the length of his forehead. He’d been such a charming boy, Jonah recalls. He’d been a delight to have in their house. When was that sweet, soft-edged boy replaced with the cold man before Jonah now? 

Jonah produces the letter that had been left on his desk and waves it in the air, still reeking of the Forsaken. Mordechai glances up at Ofelia.

“You should see to Noah and Carlotta,” he murmurs, and Ofelia murmurs something in her native tongue before sweeping past Jonah without another glance. Mordechai gives Jonah his full attention, folding his hands on his knee. “Why are you here, Jonah?”

“Because,” Jonah bites out. “I want you to - to release him. Bring him back. This petty kidnapping and extortion is beneath you, Mordechai. Barnabas is-”

“-he’s where he wants to be,” Mordechai says flatly, and when Jonah bristles at him he leans back in his seat. “Jonah, Barnabas could leave at any moment, if that was what he truly wanted. The door to the Forsaken is the choice not to forsake those you love.” 

Jonah stares at him, and Mordechai fetches a little sigh. “Well, and what do you want me to say, Jonah? If he loved you he could find his way to you. If he loved anyone, at all, even someone dead, it would give him a pathway if he were to dwell on his love for them. It _is_ that simple.”

“No,” Jonah says, something in him hardening. “No, Mordechai, he’s terrified, he’s lost, you cannot think that a man abandoned to some - some barren hellscape with no warning or explanation could reasonably examine his feelings or, or his love for anyone else, for me, he’s - it isn’t _fair_ , Mordechai-”

“Fair?” Mordechai echoes, looking faintly disgusted. “Since when has any of us experienced fairness in this world at all, Jonah?”

“Give him back,” Jonah repeats, nearly a snarl. “Give him back - or go yourself, go in and fetch him and bring him to me.”

“No,” Mordechai says simply, and when Jonah launches himself half across the thick carpet Mordechai is quick to add, “I cannot. Even if he did not know for a fact that I do not love him-” Jonah almost snorts, which Mordechai ignores. “-the fact of it is that I do _not_ love him. I cannot find a way out for him myself.”

“So you have doomed him,” Jonah spits. “You, who knew that he was only ever your friend-”

“Jonah, he was your friend, never mine,” Mordechai cuts in. “And you know, I think, that he was never anyone else’s friend, either.”

“He gave Aleksei a home when he had nowhere else to go,” Jonah argues, and Mordechai’s eyes are the pale grey of a high fog for a moment, and the fire - already distressingly low, barely more than a glimmer of orange along the blackened logs - goes out completely. 

“No,” Mordechai says, a faint echo to his words. “You did. And by rights it was your home, and only an accident of paperwork kept it from being in your name, _Jonah._ ” Mordechai looks away. “And so what if he did? Aleksei has been gone for what, eight years? And with him the only thing I had in common with Barnabas, besides yourself.” 

“Mordechai,” Jonah pleads, and Mordechai’s expression softens. He is a handsome man of thirty, Jonah thinks, and Knows that Mordechai only rarely looks into a mirror, and doesn’t know his own face anymore. He has a thick mustache - he’d always had one, as soon as he could grow it, but it seems the gingery blonde has already gone pale with age or stress or the ravages of the Lonely. For a moment it doesn’t matter. For a moment Mordechai is the same boy of eighteen that he met years ago, sent far afield by a distant father to learn the ways of the world and pulled up under Robert’s tutelage for what had been intended as a brief foray into the natural philosophies. He’d been so soft then, and so shy, and had gravitated towards Jonah and Barnabas, and later Jonathan and Aleksei, because of their relative closeness in age. The boy he’d been would have never abandoned someone he knew to the Forsaken-

-but Jonah supposes they are none of them the people they’d once been. 

“You could rescue him,” Mordechai says quietly. “I don’t know that you will succeed. You might very well die. But you could enter the domain of the Mist Beyond, and seek him through your love for him, and that love be your tether to the outside.”

“But I don’t have any connection to the Lonely,” Jonah says softly, and Mordechai nods.

“You could try, and the odds are evenly spread that you will either succeed and live or die and fail. If you choose to stay out here, then you will not be any more susceptible to the Fog’s embrace than you already are, and Barnabas will fade until his spirit feeds the thing. The only sure way out is for him to remember his love and use it against the Fog, Jonah, but you could - if you were willing to die for him, you’d have the best chance you’d _ever_ have-”

“But you don’t _Know_ that it’d help him,” Jonah says raggedly, and Mordechai watches him carefully, then shakes his head. “For all your empty words about our friendship you might as well be luring me to my own death in there, to feed your god.”

“It must be taken on faith or not at all, Jonah,” Mordechai tells him gently. Jonah’s hands twitch into fists at his sides, at his front. His arms wrap ‘round himself, and Mordechai moves slowly, leading him to a chair and bidding him sit. They are quiet for a few moments, and Mordechai clears his throat. “If you wish… I can let you See him. He might even Feel you in there, for a bit. It will hurt you to watch, but you won’t die of it. And it will draw out his suffering, and delay his end. But you’ll be able to See him, and he might know that you do before he dies.”

“Yes,” Jonah says, without hesitation. Mordechai reaches hesitantly for him, his fingertips featherlight over Jonah’s heart, and then he wrenches his hand away, as if stung. Fog pours into the Eye of the Watcher and Jonah shudders, hands over his mouth to stifle a cry as needlelike pain ripples over him and through him, the Fog angry at his intrusion, the Eye angry at his submission to another power-

-and he Sees Barnabas, curled up around himself, his head in his hands. On some level he is aware that Mordechai is dabbing at his own face with a handkerchief, blood dotting the corners of his pale eyes and just over the edge of his bristling mustache. On some level he is aware that Mordechai’s patron is no happier with him than it is with Jonah. What little he can muster to think of it doesn’t care - part of him is consumed with grief for his poor, stupid Barnabas, but more of him, much more, is fascinated to see how long it will be, and what shape the end will take for Barnabas.

**1818**

Dear Jonah,

My congratulations for the successful opening of your Institute! As you Know, I have followed your career with no small interest since those halcyon days when first we met at dear young Robert’s estate! Between us two I will admit now to having never truly Seen you as one of my ilk - you’re simply far, far too Curious a man to have any enjoyment in the velvet depths of my patron. I toast you in your joining to the forces that guide you. May you never look back in regret at the cost of true understanding, most delightful of men!

I don’t suppose you have Seen your old friend Aleksei recently? He’d been quite attached to our Luca the last I’d heard tell, and I do so envy Luca’s time with him. Of course, I’m sure I’ll be Seeing our dear mutual acquaintance soon enough - or not! It gets Dark everywhere, eventually. 

Speaking of our old friends, I ran into Joseph Grimaldi not too long ago in his professional capacity as a performer. Have I introduced the two of you just yet? He was on a grand tour recently, but I suppose you wouldn't have gone to see local pantomimes during the preparation for your opening. You’ll have to come down to London sometime to meet him, but I’m sure you’ll find him an engaging figure full of deep personal interest to your own academic pursuits. Everyone has their own story to tell, of course, but I suppose you already Know that, don’t you?

You and I are not so far apart in our natures, though our aims be ever so different in the way of such things. I have many things to teach you that I think you will find… enriching, to say the least. Yes - I think that the next time we have some time together apart from the wide and weary world, I will have such magnificent things to teach you, and you may do with this Knowledge what you wish, Jonah dear.

Thank you again for your previous correspondence. I look forward to Seeing you again and that right soon.

From One Old Stargazer to a Bright Young Star,

Yours in Amity For-Ever,

M. Rayner

**1836**

“I’m surprised to see you,” Jonah says, and means it. Jonathan turns one jaundiced eye his way, before replying with a curt nod. “Who are you looking for?”

“Can you not See for yourself?” Jon asks sharply, and Jonah regards him evenly for several moments. His old friend has not changed much in the last five years, but the changes are brilliantly visible to Jonah all the same. They are all approaching fifty - Jonathan first among them - and he wonders if the thick silver corded through the hair at Jonathan’s temples would have been the same in Barna- in one of their old friend’s hair. Jonah does not, at least, have to wait long to find out what it was that drew Jonathan’s self-imposed exile to end. Jonathan’s eyes light up, that spark of amber buried deep in the richly brown depths catching in the lamplight.

Aleksei is on a lady’s arm, and he does not look quite like a man of forty. He is round-edged and golden in the light, his hair trimmed in a shorter style than he normally entertains, his lips soft and bitten-pink. Jonah didn’t invite him, but he’d been dallying with Barbara Church - a widow of no small means and a voracious appetite that led to her husband’s eventual removal - and she’d asked him to accompany her to the party. The widow Church knows nothing of his connection to Jonah at all; she enjoys and supports the aims of the Institute and has little to recommend about the various fundraising events and galas Jonah hosts. She’d wanted Aleksei to give her a bit of a pick-me-up and make things a little more interesting for her, and he’d leapt at the chance without telling her why he was so interested.

“Excuse me,” Jonathan says, his entire body angled knifelike towards the approaching couple. Aleksei grins at them, patting Barbara’s elbow and leading her over to greet them.

“What a lovely surprise,” Aleksei says, unable to keep the joy from his features. “It’s been far too long, hasn’t it? Happy birthday, Jonah, by the by! Forty-five, now?”

“Forty-six, Aleksei,” Jonah corrects wearily, and Barbara shoots Aleksei a visibly irritated smile.

“You didn’t mention that you’re already acquainted of Jonah Magnus, Herr Oedekoven,” she says, and he gives her a sunny smile before turning and giving a wretchedly hopeful look toward Jonah and Jonathan.

“You look well, both of you,” he offers shyly. “I, uh, I’ve been in the area recently, you might say, and I thought, well. I’ve missed you both terribly.” He manages to wriggle his arm away from Barbara’s in a way that wholly suggests he’s on the verge of forgetting her existence completely; from the look of her, she’s well aware. Jonah rallies himself to salvage this night as much as possible.

“Mrs. Church, why don’t I steal you away for a bit, you simply _must_ meet with the Greek ambassador, he’s come to extend an official offer of partnership between a local library of occult happenings in his home country and the Institute here,” Jonah says, bustling her away from Aleksei and Jon.

He hears Aleksei chuckle weakly, and ask Jonathan what he’s been up to the last ten years. 

“Much,” Jonathan says, and a waiter passes by close enough to offer them both a light cordial, which they both accept more to have something to hold than for any other reason, and through the waiter Jonah hears Jonathan offer, very stiffly, “As it happens, I have terminated my personal and professional ties to Jonah ever since Albrecht’s death.”

“Albrecht’s dead?” Aleksei asks, startled. Jonathan glances suspiciously at the waiter, at the nearby bronze bust of some French philosopher, at Jonah himself, across the room now. Jonah sees him mutter that he wants to go somewhere more private to talk. He tries to watch through Jonathan’s eyes, and is alarmed - but not, perhaps, surprised - to find that he _cannot_ , not anymore. 

Jonah steers Barbara Church into the midst of a conversation and then quite abandons her. Jonathan is careful - more careful than Jonah would like - to keep Aleksei far from other people, far from statues of people, but he either neglects or does not realize that the huge pastoral painting of rolling Scottish fields in the quiet upstairs study where he and Aleksei now sit is dotted with highland cows, their faces and eyes all turned to gaze directly out onto the viewer. 

Jonathan reaches for Aleksei in the dim room, then stops himself, eyes wide and searching. Aleksei steps closer, taking his hand and pressing Jon’s palm against his cheek. 

“How’s doctoring, Jon?” he asks, and Jonathan snorts softly.

“I may be closing my practice,” he admits. “I may… I may have found another calling, Leksi.” 

“It seems terrible that you might put down your, uh… doctoring tools,” Aleksei tries, wrinkling his nose. “Forceps and such. Terrible things. But what’s this about Albrecht? He seemed very… healthy when last I saw him?”

“You haven’t seen him for ten years, Aleksei,” Jonathan says patiently, drawing his hand back. “Or do you not realize how long these years have been?”

Jonah attempts to pick up his pace, and is accosted by a celebrated poet with more money than he knows what to do with. It would be delightful if he weren’t trying to get to where Jon’s taken Aleksei as quickly as possible.

Aleksei does not see the danger gleaming in Jonathan’s lines and in the shadows of his face. He is trying to be coy, and is flustered at having been called out on his absence. 

“You won’t approve,” Aleksei murmurs, glancing at the door, at the window, at the painting, his eyes locking - by chance, Jonah thinks - on the pair of eyes Jonah is watching him through. “I’ve… been spending some amount of time in places I likely oughtn’t.”

He does not see the curving, clawed tips of Jonathan’s fingers, the pointed, hungry tips of his teeth. Jon’s head is canted to one side, the brown of his eyes nearly fully gold in the scant light of the room, and Aleksei does not see, does not know, is - as he always has been - far, far too trusting. 

“What have you been doing in these places you oughtn’t be, Aleksei?” Jonathan prompts, and Aleksei laughs softly, and Jonah finally disentangles himself from the poet’s conversation, his short legs aching as he takes the stairs two at a time. 

“Usually?” Aleksei asks, sighing. “Opium most times. I still don’t seem to have found much of a taste for drink just yet, but sometimes… sometimes I miss feeling small and helpless. Do you think that’s strange of me, Jon?”

“I couldn’t say,” Jonathan says slowly, inches away from Aleksei now. The shape of him twists, hungry. “Do you want me to tell you how Albrecht died, Aleksei?”

“Oh, goodness, I, uh. I suppose? I’m sad to hear it, of course, but we were never very close, which I know was my doing entirely, I simply never warmed up to-” Aleksei begins, and Jonathan silences him with a hand to the center of his chest.

“Albrecht was killed,” Jonathan says, and Aleksei goggles at him, mouth open. “He was killed by… what old Robert used to call the Beholding. Do you remember Robert?”

“I-I do, yes, of course,” Aleksei stammers. “Jonathan, what-”

“Do you remember what it was that Robert called the thing that’s claimed you, Aleksei?” Jonathan asks softly, and Aleksei stares at him for a few seconds.

“The Falling Titan, I think was one,” Aleksei offers, after a moment. “Which is poetic, isn’t it? Because a titan’d be quite large, and a fall implies, you know, a space that is far too large for him.”

“Yes,” Jonathan says evenly. “That is the implication.”

They are quiet for a time, and then Aleksei blurts, “Wait, so what do you mean Albrecht’s died of - of what, of being Beheld?”

“Quite possibly,” Jonathan says, before adding, “I performed his autopsy.”

“Oh, that… sounds fun, I suppose, it’s a bit gruesome for me but to each his-”

“He was covered in eyes inside, Leksi,” Jon says, and Aleksei flinches at that. Jonathan continues, “His bones and organs and all the insides of him. It was… deeply startling.”

“Sounds a bit Fleshly to me,” Aleksei says weakly. “That sounds awful. I hope he didn’t suffer too badly, though?”

“He suffered terribly,” Jonathan intones, and Jonah stops at the end of the hallway. He Sees, dimly, that Jonathan has put his hands on Aleksei’s hips. Pain lances between his eyes; he is not one of the Watcher’s favored sons, not quite yet, and it dislikes for him to use its gifts without purpose. He has an impression of Jonathan’s body tensing, alert - there is no point in sneaking, he thinks. Jon’s already too deeply in the Hunt to be caught up unawares.

Jonah sighs, and walks into the study. 

For a moment Jonathan bears very little resemblance to the man he was, before. He is not taller - Jonah doesn’t even think he could imagine a Jonathan that approaches or dwarfs Aleksei’s prodigious height - but he is more substantial, as if there is a density to him that wasn’t there in their shared youth. One hand is on Aleksei’s shoulder, near enough that it’d be easy for him to press his fingers into the softness of Aleksei’s throat, and the other is on his hip, ready to tug him off-balance and send him to his knees. 

Only the irritation at Jonah’s presence gives his face a familiar cast to it, his expression otherwise alien. It is difficult to imagine this as the same man who’d been so tender in this house twenty years past, and even though Jonah hasn’t even thought of those days in quite some time he finds himself yearning for it now.

“Hello again, Jonathan,” Jonah says, inclining his head in a nod. “And Aleksei. Is this little tryst not something you might do outside of _my_ home?”

“Jonah,” Jonathan greets flatly. Aleksei gives them both a dreadfully muddled look.

“Why, you-” he starts, turning bright red when they both turn to look at him. “Why, you’re not… angry with one another, are you?”

“Do you know that Albrecht is dead because of Jonah?” Jonathan asks, and Aleksei’s brow furrows. “Why don’t you tell him, Jonah, what it was that caused the Beholder to steal Albrecht’s life? Why don’t you tell him about the books you stole, and the effect they had on Albrecht’s body and mind?”

“Jonah?” Aleksei asks, his voice timid. “Did - did you know what would happen to Albrecht when - when you, ah, stole? Those?”

It rankles Jonah badly, that he wouldn’t even take a moment to try to imagine that Jonah didn’t. Jonah does not try to pretend otherwise, though.

“Of course not,” Jonah lies, and Jonathan’s catgold eyes narrow. “But since we’re on the subject of things that Aleksei doesn’t know - and I do realize that’s _quite_ a list indeed - why don’t you enlighten us both, Jonathan? You are now the second Hunter to come here seeking Aleksei specifically. What is it you planned on doing to him tonight?”

Aleksei stiffens, as if only now realizing the position he is in. Jon’s eyes narrow.

“Why have other Hunters been looking for you, Aleksei?” he asks, turning back to Aleksei, and something in his expression backs Aleksei into Jonah’s desk. He sits heavily, worrying at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Have you been taking people, Aleksei?”

“Taking?” Aleksei echoes, before he blanches slightly. “Why, I - I don’t hurt people, if that’s what-”

“It is,” Jonah says, stepping forward. “That’s exactly what he’s asking, Aleksei. Have you become the kind of man who hurts people? Have you changed so much since you Became? Or did any of us ever really know you at all?”

Jon moves to turn his head and glare at Jonah, but Aleksei cringes back from him anyway, eyes round. 

“The other Hunter, if you must know,” Jonah continues, “was Aleksei’s brother. And he was not here for justice.” 

Aleksei is motionless, pinned on Jonah’s desk very like one of the butterflies Jonathan used to catalogue and preserve. His fear spikes within him, sharp and brittle and blinding. 

“Do you know what his brother wanted, Jon?” Jonah asks pleasantly. “You should, if you’re to count yourself among his ilk. Perhaps it’s what you want from Aleksei, beneath the pretense of holding him accountable to some imagined injustice or harm. You know Aleksei’s never so much as raised a hand in anger against another person, Jon. Perhaps you already knew that when you came here and tried to trap him away from me.”

Jonathan glares at him, one hand closing in a fist at Aleksei’s side, bunching the cloth into an unsightly twist. “And you lie. You always-”

“Gunnar Oedekoven left a statement,” Jonah says sharply, taking another step close to them. Even in the dimness of the study most of Jonathan’s long hair is almost beetle-black, save for the silver at his temples that flows loose and ties back into the hair gathered at his nape. There is no mistaking him for a younger man, but for a second the density and energy of the Hunt fills him, and he is no age, merely the promise of a chase stuffed into the suit of a man.

“He left a statement, but if you’re so sure that I’d lie, why don’t you ask Leksi yourself?” Jonah prompts. “Ask him if he’s hurt or killed anyone in the service of the Vast. Ask him if he has a brother who’d Hunt him for no reason at all.”

“N-not _no_ reason,” Aleksei mumbles. “He… he wants me to go home. He w-wants to know that I’ll never leave him again.” He sniffles, lowering his head. “And no? Of course I haven’t hurt or killed anyone, that… that doesn’t even make sense? I want people to see what I see when I look on the sky and the forest and such other deep places. It’s… it’s frightening, yes, but isn’t beauty and greatness worth a little terror? Isn’t that the _point_ of wonder?” 

He raises his head, meekly reaching for Jonathan’s hand. “Jon, you didn’t - you didn’t think I was going around hurting people, did you?” 

Jonah sees the moment when Jonathan’s resolve crumbles, when the Chase leaves him and he is just a man, held tight against a man who he used to love quite dearly. Jon’s shoulders slump and he leans forward, his face against Aleksei’s neck for a moment.

“No, of course not,” Jon lies. Aleksei’s arms wrap around him, and Aleksei raises his eyes to meet Jonah’s, and Jonah Knows that Aleksei knows it was a lie. He gives a small, hurt smile, glancing significantly at the painted cows and back to Jonah. He mouths a silent _thank you_ and strokes Jonathan’s back through his fine suit.

“As thrilling as this immortal human drama is,” Jonah says swiftly, staunchly ignoring Aleksei’s face, “surely the two of you have somewhere better to enact this touching reunion? Considering, after all, that Jonathan has quite made his feelings clear on the matter of how willing he is to put up with my presence in his life.”

“Right,” Jon mutters to himself.

“You’re not angry at me, though, Jonah?” Aleksei tries, and Jonah’s eyes narrow.

“Angry? No,” he says flatly. “Get out of my house.”

Aleksei and Jonathan share a glance that almost looks like the ones they shared as terribly young men, full of exasperation and barely-contained hilarity, and Aleksei gestures to the window, and Jonathan shrugs. 

They are gone in a matter of minutes. Aleksei does not try to hide their destination, but Jonah elects, for now, not to trace them to it. He has a birthday party to manage, after all.

**1818**

Darling Jonah,

Greetings from the frontier! I shan’t bore you with details of our journey through the Yukon. Aleksei has endeared himself to several other groups of travelers. He has been quite a boon - I may not tell him so myself, but having a lovely, friendly young chap around the place really does wonders for convincing others to trust us enough to tell us of their greatest hopes and darkest fears, and it makes finding them again later _quite_ simple.

I’ve been made aware of the successful opening of your delightful little Institution! Congratulations! I hope it’s everything you dreamed of and more, and I hope you get to See it through to the fruition of all your greatest plans! Just remember who it was who held your hand and showed you the way of things, Jonah dear.

This missive will be, by necessity, brief - Aleksei used the rest of our stock of paper to hire one of our new friends to help him write you a letter, and it looks to be entirely too long for whatever it is he is trying to say. 

From the Snow-strewn Wilderness,

Your Friend,

Luca Napolitano

PS: Aleksei has made friends with an elk and simply will not stop singing its praises. How did you ever let this one slip through your little fingers, Jonah?

**1931**

“How do you like your book?” Jonah asks as soon as he enters his office, and Aleksei puts it reluctantly aside.

“I’m nearly finished,” he mutters, looking guiltily over at Jonah. “Sorry it’s taking me so long. It… it’s hard to see the letters, sometimes.” Jonah hums, making his way over to the desk. Aleksei stretches a bit on the settee, pressing his face against the arm of the little couch. He hasn’t bothered aging, and his professional staff - those who have spotted him - think he looks young enough to be Jonah’s son. Jonah’s own fault, for choosing Geoffrey’s body for his next vessel after Tobias died. He’ll try to aim younger for the next one, that’s all.

“You haven’t remembered to eat in some time, have you?” Jonah asks, and Aleksei huffs and waves a hand a bit. “Tea and biscuits today doesn’t count.”

“What a fucking menace you’re turning out to be, Geoffrey,” Aleksei grumbles, sniffing a bit. “Simon persists in trying to invite me to his little, ah. Events.”

“Well, you’re hungry, and he’s inviting you. You ought to go,” Jonah prods, and Aleksei cracks one eye to glare balefully at him, baring his teeth in a soft growl. “Oh, and who’s being the dramatic one today? I’ll be alright without you for a weekend.”

“It’s never just a weekend,” Aleksei points out, sitting up. “The last time Simon invited me out for a weekend away we ended up in Australia for three months, and he was utterly insufferable. He-”

Jonah glances up, raising his eyebrows at Aleksei’s sudden silence. Aleksei is crimson, his unscarred hand pressed against his mouth. Jonah doesn’t even have to call upon the Watcher before Aleksei blooms like a flower for him, words tumbling out of him like gravel down a cliffside.

“If you must entirely know, which I don’t see that you _do_ but I also _am_ aware of what you’ll be like if I don’t say anything, Simon was entirely, well, he was - he, um,” Aleksei breathes out, all in a rush. “He was trying very, _very_ hard to marry me off to someone.”

“You don’t have to marry people just because Simon wants you to,” Jonah says mildly, and Aleksei waves his arm miserably.

“I don’t _need_ to but if he _wants_ me to then, then what do I do, Jonah? It’s, um, it’s very difficult, to argue with him, or, or with anyone,” Aleksei confesses, as if Jonah hasn’t known this for well over a century. “He kept trying to make me spend time alone with some girl of his, and then he revealed that she had a lover, as well, and then he decided I should be involved with both of them.” 

“Hardly a new situation for you to be in, though,” Jonah notes, and Aleksei shoots him a miserable glance.

“I just wanted to look at the fish and the eels and the great big sharks they’ve got, Geoffrey,” he mumbles. “And they’ve got all sorts of animals, in, in Australia. I didn’t want to - to do that other sort of thing with them.”

“Why not?” Jonah prods, and Aleksei tosses a bit, huffing dramatically. “They were quite comely, weren’t they? The both of them would have loved to get their teeth into-”

“Well, I,” Aleksei starts, then stops, steadfastly refusing to look at him. “Well I didn’t love them. I didn’t even… I don’t even really like either of them. I was just being polite.” He drums nervously on his knees. “Besides all that, I had you here, waiting for me, didn’t I? What must you have thought, if I’d left for a weekend and then been gone for, for years?”

“I _was_ keeping an Eye on you,” Jonah admits. “When Simon allowed it. You make your way home whenever you like, Aleksei, I wouldn’t have stopped you from doing something off on your own.”

“But I had you,” Aleksei says, very quietly. “Waiting at home. It… it didn’t feel like… like I ought to be gallivanting about Australia with Francine and Yusuf if I had you all alone here.”

Jonah raises his eyebrows at him. “I’ve always done what I like, Aleksei, it would be cruelty itself not to allow you the same consideration.”

“Such a great gallivanter _you’ve_ been all this time that you haven’t even left this island in a hundred years,” Aleksei sniffs. “Don’t speak to me of cruelty.”

“Alright, then,” Jonah says, turning back to his desk. “None of this negates the fact that you need to feed. None of this peeking at children in the park from high places so that they tell their nursemaids they’ve seen a flying man, either. You need to properly feed.”

“It’s so much nicer to make a child laugh with delight than to make an adult shriek in terror,” Leksi huffs. “I could make a career of it. Have a bit of a traveling show.”

“Now you sound like Orsinov,” Jonah points out without raising his head, and in the sight of one of Jonah’s portraits of himself Aleksei wrinkles his nose a bit. “You should see if they need an acrobat or something.”

“I don’t want to be an acrobat,” Aleksei mutters sulkily. “I don’t want to do anything with Gregor. He isn’t - he’s not _nice._ ”

“Alright,” Jonah says again, before adding, “his niceness has nothing to do with whether it’d be good for you to spend time with his troupe for a bit.” Aleksei scoffs and puts his arm over his face. Jonah allows him to bask in his own petulance for a few moments more, because he really does need to finish writing this memorandum. The sound of rustling and fussing does not fail to reach him from across the room; Jonah doesn’t look up until he’s quite done with his paperwork. Aleksei is rumpling himself terribly in his attempts to find a comfortable way to curl up into a ball on a settee that is far too small for a man of his size to do so.

“You should be in a bed if you’re going to be doing that,” Jonah points out. “Aleksei, go find something to eat and go to bed.”

Aleksei begins to obey - it is in his nature to do so, and even more within his nature to obey Jonah - but then he stops, sitting up and staring at his knees. Jonah waits; he’s been waiting for this moment for a couple of years now, he thinks.

“You mean someone,” Aleksei says quietly. “Not something.”

“If that’s what you need,” Jonah replies briskly. “Either way, Leksi-”

“Do you really think we can’t do this without hurting people?” Aleksei asks, raising his head to stare intently into Jonah’s face. Leksi can’t keep up with making eye contact for long - never really has been able to do so, even before eye contact with Jonah became fraught with the weight of the Beholder - but instead of turning away his eyes lower to Geoffrey’s lips, to Geoffrey’s hands, back again to Geoffrey’s eyes before gliding away to stare at Geoffrey’s chest. Jonah finds himself wishing, for the first time in decades, that it was his own body and face that Aleksei were seeing. “Do you think you _have_ to hurt people, Jonah?”

“Don’t be such a child,” Jonah says, and Aleksei bristles. “Or did you never think to ask your dinner if the beef on the plate had to die for you to eat it?”

“People aren’t _cattle,_ ” Aleksei fumes, and Jonah laughs dryly, shaking his head.

“And we’re not _people,_ Leksi. Do you want to die or do you want to survive? Do you want to survive or do you want to thrive? Do you want to be at the mercy of anyone more powerful than you are?” Jonah allows himself a single cruel smile, and he Knows Aleksei knows what he’s going to say next, and his friend is too shocked and furious to cut him off. “Or do you want to be strong enough to actually fight back the next time Maxwell has an itch?”

The office is very quiet, and Jonah can hear Aleksei’s strained breathing from his desk.

“How do you think Simon’s lived as long as he has, Aleksei?” Jonah prompts, and Aleksei finally turns away, his eyes wet. “What do you think Mordechai felt when finally he consumed Barnabas in the Fog?”

Aleksei stands abruptly, his hands shaking in fists at his sides. “You’re wrong.”

“No,” Jonah says simply. “I was Watching, Aleksei, I-”

“No, you’re wrong, in general, about everything else, about-” Aleksei waves an arm towards the window, letting the outside world stand in for everything in the cosmos. “You’re wrong, Jonah.”

“Enough of this, Leksi. We’ve already discussed this, you know that we have. Robert-” Jonah starts, and Aleksei takes a step closer, eyes bright and frantic.

“Robert wasn’t wrong, Jonah, he just - he just didn’t - he was wrong about some things, but not about this, and I’m going to prove it, you don’t need to hurt people, and if - if I prove it, if I prove that you don’t need to hurt anybody, if I can show you that you’re wrong, then you - you’ll stop doing that, alright?” Leksi’s babbling reaches a feverish pitch as he clasps his hands together in front of his stomach, pleading. “You’ll stop hurting people. This is, it isn’t you, Jonah. You’re not the kind of person who hurts people.”

“Oh, Leksi,” Jonah sighs, weariness battling with contempt for such willful blindness. “Do you really think that’s who I am?”

“I know you,” Aleksei says, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. “You forget yourself, Jonah, but I remember you, I _know_ you, I love you and I know that the person you are isn’t someone who’d just - who’d hurt people or, or kill people, you’re not that kind of person. I _know_ who you are.”

Jonah watches him sweep out of the room, and he Watches him leave the Institute for Jonah’s townhouse to fetch a couple of his things. He needs to learn this lesson at some point, Jonah knows. It doesn’t hurt to Know that Aleksei is wrong. It doesn’t hurt to Know that Aleksei’s heart will break to learn it.

**1818**

Dear Mr. Magnus,

Here we are! Ha! Ha! Just a little laugh!

Thank you for your kindness in allowing me access to your Institute during my Tour this year. I’d been terribly concerned that I might miss it in the rush and bustle of things, and your kindness in allowing me access to your burgeoning Archives will never be forgotten. Kinder still was your insistence on lending me a Listening Ear, especially in regards to the dreadful tales I had to share of my earlier days as a performer. I will admit, for having lived a life amongst the stage and been Beheld by thousands of strangers, somehow I have never quite felt so… Seen as I did when I was telling you my stories. I’m not entirely sure that I should enjoy to repeat the process.

Alas, that may not be up to me! My health has taken something of a Turn, and I fear it may be some time indeed before I am able to return to continue our little chat. I am very much looking forward to a continued correspondence with you and shall Look most eagerly for any updates you may find among your nest of stories. I’m quite sure that I can’t have been the first person to have encountered those rather stern gentlemen!

I think you ought to make a visit to my home here in London as soon as you get the chance to. We have a mutual acquaintance - a singular architect who has been working to salvage the mess that is Millbank Prison - and I’m quite sure he’d be entirely too delighted to See you here!

With the best of regards,

Wishing you Endless Laughter,

Joseph Grimaldi

**1996**

“Me too,” Aleksei says in the soft light. His London flat is designed around his own comfort - very few people come here, generally. He’d begged a little money off Simon to establish it, and like a favored son, Simon’d given him more than he’d asked for. It’s a beautiful little set of rooms, high up and well-built, with enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. Aleksei has already made the joke - who do the windows feed, his love for the Vast or the voyeur of the Beholding? He makes the joke every time Jonah is over to visit.

Every wall, every shelf, is laden with trinkets, mementos, framed photographs and posters. There are eyes aplenty; Aleksei invites him in, again and again, everywhere he goes, every time they part, even if it’s only for a day. Jonah Watches him through the eyes of a pair of Van Gogh prints on the wall, as he carefully unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. His golden skin is silver-kissed in the lamplight, and he kneels before the couch, his hands resting on Elias’s knees and opening them slowly.

“I can’t promise you’ll have a great time,” Aleksei confesses softly, his eyes twinkling faintly. Jonah Gazes down at him through Elias’s eyes, through the eyes of a painting that Mikaele convinced him to buy, through the eye-patterned throw pillow Leksi only put on his couch to tease him with and subsequently forgot about. “It’s been a long time since I’ve fucked anybody.”

“How long?” Elias’s voice is soft, dreamy, smoke-tinged. Aleksei laughs into the side of his knee, pressing a kiss into the denim.

“Do you _need_ to Know?” he asks playfully, teasingly, looking up at Elias through his lashes. “Bit over eight years.”

Jonah Watches him lean into Elias’s hand where it cups the side of his head, blunt fingertips raking through the messy, windswept tangle of blonde curls. 

“Dry spell that bad, huh?” Elias asks, and Jonah Knows that he’s trying very hard to be suave, is afraid that he isn’t. He shouldn’t have worried. Aleksei’s easy to please. 

Aleksei huffs a small laugh. “Not a dry spell. Just looking for the right person.”

“Am I the right person?” Elias asks, and Aleksei grins.

“I think you could be.” He draws his hands up the sides of Elias’s thighs, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. Jonah Watches him hesitate, chewing on his lower lip. “Is this okay, Elias?”

“Yes,” Elias bursts out, “God, yes, please, Aleksei-”

“Okay, okay,” Aleksei laughs, surging forward, pressing Elias onto his back. Aleksei is attentive and sloppy and giggly, the way he was when he was eighteen and in Jonah’s bed. They are both naked before long, Elias’s soft white legs around his waist as they kiss, Elias’s laughing mouth sucking bruises onto Aleksei’s breasts. Aleksei comes undone as he grinds into Elias, who laughs again, kisses him again, runs his fingers through Aleksei’s hair again. 

Jonah Watches through the eyes of a ceramic lion as Aleksei takes Elias by the hips and moves him - a shocked, giggling squeak escaping the smaller man - as if he weighed nothing, as if he were little more than a doll. Jonah Watches him bury his face between Elias’s thighs, Watches Elias pant and gasp and arch his back, legs trembling, clutching tightly at fistfuls of Aleksei’s hair. 

He Watches Aleksei raise his head, his open mouth slick and smiling, and he Watches Elias squirm as he presses a tender, practically chaste kiss against Elias’s cunt, and he Watches as Elias swats him gently, and as Aleksei giggles again, exhausted and sated and love-drunk.

“Sorry, sorry,” Aleksei says, and Elias is quick to say, “come here, come here.”

Jonah Watches as Aleksei shifts, eyes soft and dark and fixed on Elias’s face, and he Watches as Elias goes pink and self-conscious and asks, “What? What is it?"

“I love you,” Aleksei blurts, then blinks, going crimson and tongue-tied half-caught between Elias’s open legs. “I, well. I know it’s very sudden. That was awkward. I just - you’re just very good to be around and I, well, you’re fun and you’re nice and you’re, you’re, um, sexy, and, ah-”

“Leks,” Elias says softly. “Come here so I can kiss you.”

Aleksei obeys. It is some time before either of them has the presence of mind to suggest taking this to the bedroom for a shower and sleep. 

(They are walking naked hand in hand, and Elias pauses to stand on his toes and press a kiss to Aleksei’s shoulder, and he asks Aleksei if his enormous windows ever make him feel like he’s being watched, if he felt like they were being watched while fucking, and Aleksei laughs and says yes, that’s why he had them put in.)

Jonah Watches them shower, Watches them pile damp and wet-haired into Aleksei’s magnificent bed. He’d helped Aleksei pick the mattress, paid for the linens as a gift, and on every wall are the myriad ways Aleksei has invited him in. He Watches them kiss lazily, legs entwined, Aleksei’s arms around Elias’s body in a tangle. He Watches Elias fall asleep, Watches Aleksei watch Elias sleep for a while, Watches Aleksei fall asleep against the crook of Elias’s throat.

James Wright has less than three months to live. Jonah supposes he should start making arrangements.

**1818**

Dear Jonah,

It is cold here. I miss you and Barnabas. I miss Mordechai and Jonathan and Robert. I miss you most of all, Jonah. 

Luca says you are well. Luca says you have opened an Institute.

I still have trouble remembering what happened, Jonah. Luca says I will be better soon. Were you angry with me? Is that why I left? Is that why Luca took me across an ocean, to another continent? I don’t remember wanting to leave, even though I have had a lovely time with him.

I have met another couple of Frenchmen here. Luca has been gossipping with them. I met an elk. It’s such a large and noble creature, Jonah, I should have liked to pat it a bit but our guide said that this was a foolish thing to do. Apparently an elk can kill a man.

I hope you and Barnabas are happy. The Institute sounds very interesting. I would like to see it one day, if you’re not still angry with me when I come back home.

I have seen such starry skies, Jonah, but what are all the diamonds of heaven to the curve of your lips, your skin, your hands? I have seen things here that make me wonder if I am wrong about the world, about the possibility of a Creator that loves us, for only a loving god would give us the skies. And still, Jonah, they are not you. I miss you.

I would like to see these places again with you. What would it take to pull you away from Scotland, Jonah? What would it take to bring you with me on my journeys?

Luca says hello. He says he might like to write you a letter as well. I suppose I don’t know how you’ll write back to me. I do not expect you to. Please just know that I will come home, and beg your forgiveness of whatever sin it was I committed against you.

Yours always,

A.O.

**2016**

“Right, tell me again, please,” Jonah says, handing Sasha James the tape recorder. 

“You’re kidding,” she says, just as Aleksei shoots him a horrified half-smile. 

“Priorities, Bouchard,” he says, gallantly offering an arm that Jonah steadfastly ignores. Sasha does take him up on the offer, and Aleksei preens a bit as Jonah adds on a bit of explanation regarding Jonathan’s desire to have supplemental recordings and material regarding today’s events. It’s sheer bad luck that Leksi happened to be in the building to pester him into taking an extended lunch, or that he was still at Jonah’s desk with open containers of Thai takeout when the fire alarms went off and Sasha burst into the office. He supposes he knows that Aleksei wouldn’t have been able to resist meddling, but he hopes Leksi will concern himself so thoroughly with Sasha’s wellbeing that he doesn’t interfere with Jonah’s plans for the rest of the Archives.

It’s only after Jonah and Sasha hash out a plan to use the fire suppressant system and Sasha pauses the recording that Aleksei speaks up again, looking thoughtful.

“What exactly,” he asks, squinting at Jonah, “is the deal with the… worms, by the way? I saw them on my way in but I must say it’s fucking disgusting. What exactly is the… reason they’re here?”

Jonah Knows what he’s asking, but Sasha answers instead.

“They’re… we think they’re connected to a woman from multiple statements in the Archives, named Jane Prentiss,” she explains, and Aleksei’s gaze snaps over to her face - she’s almost exactly his height, and it’s still quite novel for him to meet anyone approaching his size. Jonah thinks that if it weren’t for the worm situation, he’d be forced to witness Aleksei’s dismal flirtation attempt with Ms. James. “We’re not sure what they want, but they ate through the walls, and we know firsthand that they eat into human flesh, so.”

“That’s dis-fucking-gusting,” Leksi announces, shooting Jonah a puzzled look. Jonah knows, without the assistance of the Watcher, that Leksi is concerned, that he would have thought Jonah would never allow such harm to come to his Archives, to his Institute. “I thought the walls were… sturdy? Stone or somesuch. How… how long have these worms been… worming at you all here?”

“The worms first, uh, started worming, menacingly, at Martin back on… hang on, I think it was Leap Day, wasn’t it? Yeah,” Sasha murmurs. 

“That’s a long - that’s _five months_ ago,” Aleksei hisses, sending another glance heavy with meaning Jonah’s way.

“Yeah. And he came and he’s been living in the Archives since March, and maybe around the end of the month the worms started showing up around here,” Sasha adds, and Aleksei’s mouth drops open. “So… four months, I suppose?”

“Has it really been that long?” Jonah muses.

“You didn’t _notice_ a swarm of terror-worms in a four-to-five month time, Elias?” Aleksei asks sharply, and Sasha, of all people, shoots Jonah a sympathetic look as she pats Aleksei’s arm.

“To be fair, they never showed up in huge swarms like this until today,” she says, and the three of them exit the main stairwell on the ground floor, between the Maintenance office and the smaller stairwell leading to the Archives.

“Should I go down there and see if I can help?” Aleksei asks, and Sasha and Jonah both turn to give him stern instructions not to-

-and then Jonah sees, through the Eyes lining every inch of his building, the surge of worm-filth bubbling like a burst pipe up over the lip of the stairwell to the Archives, flowing like dishwater vomit across the floor, and Sasha’s eyes widen, and Aleksei and Jonah feel her fear like a sudden mouthful of rotting meat. Aleksei almost chokes on it; he’s never been as comfortable with the feel of the other Fears.

“Elias, run!” Sasha cries out, and Aleksei is transfixed with a sort of muted, blankfaced disgust as he stares down at the worms writhing ankle-deep across the floor towards them. Jonah runs to Maintenance, and Sasha pulls Aleksei with her, and he allows himself to be pulled because he is confident that Jonah can take care of himself here, in the greatest seat of his own power. 

He waits inside the Maintenance office, and Watches as Sasha flees with Aleksei into Artefact Storage, and Watches as Jonathan confesses to Martin that he’s been feeling the Beholder’s Gaze on his neck all these months, and Watches as Timothy stumbles into the tunnels and out of his Sight, and Watches as Jane Prentiss does unspeakable things to a shelving unit. 

Too early still. Jonathan will feel safe if they die now. 

He waits and Watches as Aleksei pauses, watching Sasha fumble with the recorder.

“Why are you using that now?” he asks gently, and she can’t answer, shaking her head. “Do you want me to do anything with it?”

“No, no, it’s… I want to make sure Jon has all the… the information he wants, if… if he’s alive after this,” she whispers, and he puts an arm around her. Sasha melts against his chest, breathing out. “I hate this place. I used to work here, and - and I’m sorry, I’m hugging you and I don’t even think I know your name, I just-”

“Aleksei,” he murmurs, huffing a laugh. “And you’re Sasha. That’s alright. Being chased by worms is an automatic friend-upgrade, worth several hugs.” 

Jonah Watches Timothy batter his way into the sensitive materials storage room that Martin and Jonathan have turned into a bit of a nest, and Watches as Sasha narrates the past hour in summary to her recorder, and Watches as Jane Prentiss listens to the song of the worms and gathers them back towards herself within the Archives.

Too early still. It’s actually worse than before, Jonathan’s feeling far too relieved for anything to be constructive now. It has to get worse before it can get better.

Jonah Watches as Aleksei sees the hypnotic wooden table, and Watches as he and Sasha spot the movement of the Not!Them, and as Aleksei whirls and presses an urgent hand to Sasha’s mouth, his soft blue eyes wide with terror.

“Don’t speak,” he whispers. “Don’t speak to it. It knows you’re there if you talk to it, and if it knows you’re here it will kill you.” Sasha’s a smart woman, and she used to work in Artefact Storage. She knows better than to disbelieve him. She nods, and he breathes out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes. “I need you to promise me something, darling. I need you to be very brave, and I need you to watch me. Keep your eyes open. I want this to be Seen. Can you do that for me?”

She nods again. He lowers his hand from her mouth. He puts his hands on her shoulders, tugging her closer and standing up on his toes to press a kiss onto the center of her forehead. Just a touch of the Vast, not enough to war with the Eye, not enough to protect her, but he wants it to be enough.

Jonathan, Timothy, and Martin are in the tunnels. Nothing for Jonah to Watch.

Jane Prentiss is lurking at the top of the trapdoor, unmoving. Too early to kill her.

He Watches as Aleksei opens his eyes, two voidblack orbs dotted with distant stars, and Sasha James takes in a sharp breath, clutching at his fringed jacket for a moment. Aleksei takes her hands, presses a terribly gentle kiss to the inside of her wrist and puts his finger to his lips. 

He turns and steps toward the bewebbed table, and the Not!Them insinuates itself closer, giving itself a head, and a neck to balance it on, and tilting its head to one side.

“Hhhhello, cousin,” it rasps, and Aleksei gazes at it for a moment or two, and Sasha watches, and Jonah Watches through her, just as Aleksei intended. It slinks closer; Aleksei really _has_ always gotten along well enough with the Stranger’s Children. “What ensnares you to be caught so in this awful place?”

“It’s not so bad, Young One,” Aleksei says softly, and Sasha watches, shaking bodily, and Jonah Watches through her, and he thinks Aleksei sounds sad. He’s always been hurt by the relative youth of some of those that also serve, and nevermind that he was only a child himself, really. “What mischief do you seek, _liebchen_?”

“I can taste herrrrr,” it hisses, coiling around the table. “The strangeness of the Titan is not so different from that of all Strangers, cousin. You’d eat well of her terror as I ate her.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer,” Aleksei says flatly, and Jonah feels Sasha’s terror spike, and through her eyes he Sees Aleksei roll his shoulders. “You’re so young, little faceling. When did you eat last?”

“Been nearly a year since I had someone to Be,” it croons up at him. “And ever sssso long since I was free of this table. Won’t you let me out, cousin?”

“Ah… you’re right, you know. It comes back to wonder, doesn’t it? Wonder and delight,” Aleksei muses. “Just think of how much joy you could bring with you, if you chose! We truly aren’t very different at all, save for the fact that I’ve more than a century more experience than you do and I’ve eaten my fill today. You might have given me a struggle, otherwise.”

“What?” it asks, alarmed, cowering back against the legs of the table as a wind begins to pick up inside the room. “No! You’ve eaten your fill, you’ve sssssaid, you don’t _need_ to eat her, too-”

“Oh, Little One,” Aleksei sighs, the wind blowing the hair from his starlit eyes, his sudden, cruel smile a narrow wedge of moonlight in his face. “I’m not going to eat her. She’s _mine_ , and she’s the _Eye’s,_ and you dared to think you’d come here and take from us?”

The Not!Them lashes out, striking out against his midsection - not a killing blow, but enough to burn and wind him, whipping pieces of nonexistence around his chest and shoulders in an attempt to bring him to his knees, and he barks out a surprised laugh as terror lurches through him.

Jonah watches as the Stranger’s Child tries to make itself look like his face; it can’t, far too Witnessed by Sasha and by Jonah to succeed. 

“This place isn’t yours at all,” it hisses. “It’s of the Eye, this temple to Magnus-”

“As much mine as it is the Lukas’s,” Aleksei grunts, reaching out and squeezing something that would have been a throat in a living being. “Building’s been my home since before you were born, you fucking parasite, been mine nearly as long as it’s been Magnus’s, and you thought you could try me, you really fucking did!” 

It loosens its grip and he throws it back, skittering its disjointed legs against the floor and wall. Aleksei looms over it, bigger than he is or ever was, filling the room, bigger than the building, his eyes huge enough to fill a sky themselves, and Sasha watches, unable to look away or stop Watching, and Jonah Watches through her as Aleksei wraps a hand around the Not!Them’s entire body, squeezing it between his fingers.

“No wonder your Troupe doesn’t care to retrieve you,” he says in a voice like the roaring of a mountain wind, ice-cold and stealing the breath out of Sasha’s lungs for a moment. “So much potential wasted, so much energy spent in terrorizing one person at a fucking time. You really are the smallest of Strangers, aren’t you?” 

Gleaming teeth the size of doors flash as he speaks, and for a moment Sasha thinks she’ll choke on the airlessness of the room and freeze in the vacuum of space, for a moment Jonah Sees Aleksei throw the Not!Them into the void-

-and then there is air in the room again, and Aleksei is on his knees, one arm slung over the table, his face in his other hand, and Sasha is gasping for air.

Aleksei looks up at her, his eyes faded blue, his golden skin flushed with alarm.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and she stammers at him, and he jumps to his feet, swaying. “Holy fuck, though, you saw that, right? I’ve never done anything like that before!”

“What?” she croaks, and he gives her an unsteady grin.

Jonah Watches the trapdoor in the Archives open, and he Watches Jane Prentiss pour her swarm over Jonathan and Timothy. Just a few more moments.

“Fuck,” Aleksei repeats fervently. “That was so fucked up, though, I thought we were both going to die? Possibly just me, which is why I was hoping you’d watch me, so that it’d be witnessed. Did - you _were_ watching the _whole_ time, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Wait, what you said earlier - who are you, what did you mean I’m the Eye’s? What eye, what does that mea-”

Jonah pulls the lever, and CO2 bursts out into the Archives in a punishing wave, and the worms all scream as one as they die, as Jane Prentiss finally dies. Aleksei and Sasha both clap their hands over their ears, wincing, and by the time it’s over Aleksei is giving Jonah a calculating glare through the eyes of the framed Employee of the Month photos along the far wall. 

“Come on, Sasha,” Aleksei says, after they’re both sure the noise won’t happen again. “I don’t know about you, but I think that noise was our cue to get the fuck out of here.”

He ushers Sasha out of the room, and Jonah stops Watching as he steps gingerly out of the office and into Reception. There are, unfortunately, several piles and streaking lines of worm detritus scattered around the floor even here, and he has to pick his way across the room to get out just as the paramedics and fire department pull up to his front doors. Aleksei ushers Sasha out moments later - if the squelching of his boots is any indication, he’d taken next to zero care in crossing the freshly slain worms. 

He waits until Sasha is being seen to by a paramedic before turning and giving Jonah a glare. 

“You let that faceless thing in your building and it could have killed one of your people today. It could have killed any number of them,” he hisses, and Jonah sighs.

“But it didn’t, and _you_ killed it, Leksi,” he says, and Aleksei turns away from him. 

“Five months of worms,” he says dully. “It’s like you _wanted_ the Crawling Rot to take them.”

“Leksi, you don’t understand, do you?” Jonah tries, gently taking his arm. “Look at me, Aleksei. I wasn’t going to allow anyone to be killed today if I could help it, you know that. Everyone is alive and well enough, my Archivist is coming along splendidly, this makes his _third_ true Mark now, and-”

“ _Stop talking,_ ” Aleksei says, straining to stop himself from shouting as he turns an unbelieving stare towards Jonah. “After what _you_ said, what you did and believed, all these decades and years and centuries, Jonah, about how what was important was that it was your choice to become one of us, about how you’d rather die than be something like me? Jonah, you were so, so upset that Simon took that choice from me, you fought so hard against letting Fear change you outside of your consent, and-”

“There is no comparison at all, Leksi,” Jonah says, and Aleksei continues anyway.

“-and now, now, you just… roll these people, _your_ people who are _your_ responsibility, into the shitter, stripping that choice away from them, just to see if your pet theory about your latest crackpot apocalypse plan will work?”

Jonah pauses, staring up at him.

“When you put it that way,” he begins, and Aleksei cuts him off.

“Shut the fuck up, Elias,” he says, briskly turning and striding towards Sasha. 

Jonah watches, and he Watches, and he tries to think of something that will make Aleksei forgive him again. He always forgives him eventually.


End file.
